


umarekawaru

by aceklaviergavin



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akechi Goro Lives, Anger Management, Asexual Kitagawa Yusuke, BPD Akechi Goro, Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon Compliant, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Akeshu, Feelings Realization, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lack of Communication, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Redemption, Vanilla Persona 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceklaviergavin/pseuds/aceklaviergavin
Summary: The seasons change. The chill of winter fades to make way for the birth of spring. Cherry blossoms bloom, fall, then bloom once more. The viper sheds its skin.The man formerly known as Akechi Goro learns to love again.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kitagawa Yusuke, Akechi Goro/Kitagawa Yusuke/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Kitagawa Yusuke/Persona 5 Protagonist, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, Kitagawa Yusuke/Kurusu Akira, Kitagawa Yusuke/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 63
Kudos: 165





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i fucking adore this ship and if no one's going to make content then fuck guess i have to do everything myself. this was just supposed to be an exercise in why i adore akekita but then i was like go big or go home.
> 
> thank you so much to [sicilliana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sicilliana/pseuds/sicilliana) for beta-ing this for me!
> 
> some notes:
> 
>   * this fic is set after vanilla p5 but does contain minor spoilers for Justice Rank 3
>   * i always assumed "Akechi" was an alias, he goes by his mother's name in this fic: i chose Itsumi 逸見
> 

> 
> detailed triggers in the end notes

As with so many things concerning the (former) Phantom Thieves of Hearts, it starts with a letter. This one, however, bears little resemblance to the flashy, cut-and-paste calling cards Goro remembers. This one is almost suspiciously dull, printed on white stationery. Yusuke’s hands falter, pausing in their search through his mail. Despite himself, Goro sees the tremble in Yusuke’s fingers, the way his eyes go dull for a moment. Yusuke drops the stack of letters to his counter and pulls back like he’s been stung.

His eyes dart to Goro and he seems to remember the other man’s presence. “Ah, forgive me. I’m expecting a letter from a gallery.”

There’s no need to apologize. Yusuke has every right to check his mail in his own home. But clearly, Yusuke wishes to ignore… whatever just happened. Goro watches him with those piercing red eyes, an eyebrow raised almost defiantly. Goro knows there’s something wrong, and Yusuke _knows_ that Goro knows.

Yusuke’s skin prickles beneath Goro's gaze. Every time, it feels like Goro peels back another layer of flesh. One day Yusuke will be left with nothing but bone.

Goro's eyes catch the set of Yusuke’s shoulders, the way his armor hardens beneath Goro’s gaze, preparing for a viper’s strike. Goro glances away. Of all people, he’s the last to deny Yusuke his secrets.

“Of course,” Goro says simply. “Now, if you’d tell me about the piece you’re working on?”

Yusuke lets out the breath he’d been holding, eagerly diving back into their conversation. He sweeps Goro into his studio, a whirlwind of passion the way he only gets when discussing his work. Stacks of dried paintings lean against the walls of Yusuke’s studio. A cluttered desk sits in the corner, and in the center, the blank canvas where he intends to capture Goro.

“I’m trying to capture the essence of renewal.” Sketches litter the surface of Yusuke's desk, butterflies bursting from their cocoons, snakes shedding their skin. “I want people to look upon this painting and feel cleansed, reborn.”

Goro eyes the stool set out for him. “And you think people are going to look at me and feel _cleansed?”_

Yusuke sets himself in front of the easel. “My vision is more abstract than a simple portrait, but you have elements that could prove useful in the final piece. You have a very fresh face.”

Certainly not the _worst_ thing Goro had ever heard about his face. “Does your vision involve me being nude?”

“Just your shirt, for now, is fine. I want to focus on your upper body.”

Goro unceremoniously removes his gloves, loosens his tie, and unbuttons his shirt. He has few qualms about letting Yusuke see his bare skin. He’s shown others more for less. In the end, his body is just a tool. Goro drops his shirt and gloves carelessly on the ground.

“Perfect, now if you could extend your arm…”

Goro does so, following Yusuke’s direction. He holds the pose for a few minutes. Yusuke’s eyes follow the curl of his fingers, up to the joint of his elbow, and watches how the muscles attach to Goro’s shoulder. He works quickly to recreate it on paper. Despite himself, Yusuke’s eyes repeatedly catch on Goro’s chest.

Goro knows exactly what he sees.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” Goro finally breaks the silence.

Goro brushes his fingertips over the starburst scar above his heart. The knot of scar tissue bows inward, fat and muscle permanently cleaved away. A matching scar sits on Goro’s back, just below his shoulder blade. The skin is gnarled to the touch, where torn flesh failed to fit back together.

“Scars make for interesting visual contrast and give character to the subject,” Yusuke says as if reciting words from a textbook.

He continues painting.

Yusuke’s disinterest is practically an insult. People used to beg on hands and knees for any scrap of information Goro deigned to offer them. He kept his scars and emotions hidden, offering fake smiles from behind a mask. Yet here Goro is, unmasking himself, and Yusuke didn’t even take notice. Annoyance flares through Goro’s heart.

“It’s from the engine room,” Goro says pointedly, “when I shot myself.”

Yusuke flinches, and Goro’s heart beats a sick thrill. “I wasn’t going to ask,” Yusuke huffs. “It would be rude.”

Now that Goro’s shared something vulnerable, it’s only fair for Yusuke to do the same. In Goro’s experience, that’s how this works. Friendships are nothing more than transactions of intimacy. Goro waits for Yusuke to confide in him about the letter, but he never does. Yusuke only instructs Goro to hold his pose.

Goro’s career as a detective may have been a sham, but a good mystery still draws his eye. Briefly, he considers simply taking the letter. It would be easy enough to break the seal, read it, then reset it so that Yusuke would never know. Of all the crimes Goro’s committed, a little bit of mail fraud wouldn’t even be a blip on the radar. But an annoying voice in his head (one that sounds suspiciously like Akira) reminds him that would be an egregious breach of Yusuke’s trust.

Goro cares little about trust. After all, he’s hardly deserving of it. If he uses someone’s misplaced trust to tie a noose around their neck, well, it was their fault for trusting a piece of shit like Goro in the first place. But the Phantom Thieves are different. Where once he’d sold them to the wolves in pursuit of patricide, now the thought of simply reading Yusuke’s mail turns something in his stomach.

When the teapot goes off, Yusuke turns his back on Goro. He leaves Goro alone in his studio surrounded by thousands of dollars of artwork, his livelihood, but more importantly, Yusuke’s _soul_ painted in strokes on canvas. A palette knife lies in plain view on Yusuke's worktable and Goro could so easily ruin _everything._ That deep, twisted part of him that held a gun to Akira’s head and pulled the trigger very much wants to.

Yusuke returns. He hands Goro a steaming cup of his favorite tea. It warms Goro’s palms like a hearth in the depths of winter. Goro doesn’t take the palette knife to canvas and he doesn’t open Yusuke’s mail.

It’s _infuriating._

But despite his curiosity and the part of him the longs to tear down every bridge he’s ever built, Goro knows better. Akira’s voice in his head reminds him: it’s not worth risking Yusuke’s—the _Phantom Thieves’_ —trust when the pain of that gnarled, throbbing scar has only just begun to fade. Goro has worked too hard to repair this thing between him and the other Thieves to throw it away on a whim.

The ghost of Loki hisses in his ear, dark and tempting like low-hanging fruit. _That will only make it more painful when they tire of you. More satisfying when it goes up in flames._ Goro stalwartly ignores that voice and excuses himself from Yusuke’s apartment before he can do something he’ll regret.

Goro tries to put the letter, Yusuke’s behavior, and the Phantom Thieves’ foolish trust in him out of his mind. He goes home to Akira, to classes, his therapist, and back again. He goes through the motions, all the while his fingers itch to peel back his own skin.

* * *

The next time he sees Yusuke, it’s at Penguin Sniper. Truth be told, the sweaty, noisy din of Goro’s old haunt is the last thing Goro wants. But Akira invited him, and Goro had already missed the past few outings. If he didn’t at least _pretend_ to put some effort into his relationships he would be left with nothing. The Phantom Thieves—and Akira—would move on. They’d realize Goro was more trouble than he was worth, that they were happier and better off without him. Goro would hardly blame them for reaching that conclusion. It's true after all. But Goro is nothing if not a selfish bastard. He desperately clings to the fraying threads of his friendships—at least until he can cut the rope himself.

So Goro goes to Penguin Sniper, even though every beat of the music drives an icepick through his skull. Every time he catches someone’s eye, Goro wants to crawl into his own skin. Goro doesn’t belong here. In this bar or with these people, these “friends.” He was supposed to die years ago, he was _prepared_ to die. But Akira "saved" him and now he has to play pool with amateurs in the service of holding onto the one good thing he’s ever found.

Goro, Akira, and Makoto chat idly around the pool table while they wait for Yusuke.

“Sis has been letting me help her with her newest case,” Makoto says with a soft smile. “Just some of the paperwork, non-confidential stuff.” Makoto sheepishly tucks some hair behind her ear. She keeps it chopped short now and no longer wears that ridiculous headband. “She’s doing great work. I’m really proud of her.”

Goro used to _work_ with Sae-san. Sae-san had been warped, twisted by envy into a monster driven by her own ambition, just like every other rotten adult in Goro’s life. But she had _trusted_ him. Even if it was for her own gain she had valued Goro’s insight. Nearly everything Goro told her had been a lie, but oh, how good it had felt to be _needed._

Clearly she doesn’t need him anymore. No one does.

“Yeah?” Akira grins at Makoto. “Is she looking for an ace detective?” Akira gently elbows Goro’s side.

Goro’s mouth thins into a harsh line and he glares at his boyfriend. Akira only smiles back, gentle and teasing. Akira has teased him about this before. Normally Goro simply rolls his eyes while they laugh at his expense. Besides, they’re not laughing at _him._ They’re laughing at the saccharine bastard Detective Prince he used to _pretend_ to be. But tonight it’s too much.

Makoto laughs softly into her hand. “I’ll be sure to ask.” Her eyes twinkle and all Goro sees is scorn.

Everywhere he looks, he sees judgment. Strangers glancing his way, whispering behind their hands. They’re talking about _him,_ he’s _sure_ of it.

_“Look at that boy.”_

_“Clearly his_ friends _don’t want him there.”_

_“Doesn’t he know he doesn’t belong?”_

Even Akira’s gentle touches—the hand on his arm or the palm flat against his back—make Goro want to bend Akira’s fingers back until they break.

Finally, Yusuke strides in, fae-like as the harsh lights deepen the shadows of his collarbone. He’s eerily out of place in the crowded, noisy sports bar. But Yusuke either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. A hot spike of envy shoots through Goro’s gut.

“My apologies for being late,” Yusuke says with a polite bow. “I walked the last few stops on foot. It seems it took longer than I estimated.”

Makoto’s brows furrow, while Akira simply gives Yusuke a wry smile. “Oh, did you need money?” Makoto asks gently. “You know you only have to ask.”

Akira shakes his head with a perplexed smile. He _knows_ for a fact that Yusuke’s penny-pinching days are over. In addition to inheriting his mother’s artwork from Madarame’s collection, Yusuke is an accomplished artist in his own right. He isn’t wealthy by any means (yet), but for a nineteen-year-old still in university, he's doing alright for himself.

“Oh, no, I have plenty of money,” Yusuke assures them. “I simply wanted to take in the sights of the city. You never know where you’ll find inspiration.”

Makoto lets out a fond sigh, her lips curving into a relieved smile. “Alright, as long as you’re taken care of.”

“Have you eaten?” Akira cuts in.

As if on cue, Yusuke’s stomach audibly growls. “Ah,” Yusuke hums, “I knew I forgot something.”

Akira loops his arm over Yusuke’s shoulders and begins steering him towards the bar. “Let’s get you some food.”

Yusuke returns the embrace easily, his arm curling around Akira. “A splendid idea.”

Goro stares at the splay of Yusuke’s hand across Akira’s back. Akira leans into the touch casually, easily, as if he _deserves_ it. Like Yusuke deserves _him._ The two exchange a smile, and Goro feels like he might as well be a hundred miles away. Yusuke’s long, elegant fingers curl around Akira’s side like a second set of ribs—protective. But what does Akira need protection from?

(Not so long ago, those elegant, artist’s fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of a sword as it sliced across Goro’s chest.)

“Let’s start racking up.” Makoto’s voice breaks Goro out of his thoughts.

“Right,” Goro says, before finally tearing his eyes away from Akira.

Yusuke and Akira return with chicken skewers just in time to see Goro line up his break shot. The game passes smoothly. They play pairs, Goro and Yusuke versus Akira and Makoto. Goro and Akira have roughly the same skill, while Makoto is above average. Yusuke is more of a handicap than anything, as he usually focuses on arranging the balls in a way that’s aesthetically pleasing. But Akira, despite his skill, spends most of the game attempting trick shots. In the end, it evens out to make for an interesting game.

Once, Goro had found Yusuke’s insistence on shirking the rules infuriating. Now, he almost enjoys the added challenge. It’s a game he plays with himself, trying to make use of Yusuke’s horrible setup. He’s made some truly impressive shots this way, and it’s always a joy to excel despite the odds.

Yusuke’s figure is drawn in long, dark brush strokes, like one of his traditional paintings on tapestry. When he bends over the pool table to take a shot, it only accentuates the lines of his body. His forearms tense beneath rolled-up sleeves. A flash of skin peeks out from the hem of his shirt, exposing the jut of his hipbone.

_Crack!_

The clack of pool balls snaps Goro out of his trance. Yusuke doesn’t sink his shot, but when the 2 ball rolls to a stop at the foot string, he appears satisfied with himself.

“Perfect,” Yusuke hums, framing the table with his fingers.

A familiar pair of eyes pierces Goro’s skin. When he looks up, he finds Akira watching him. Goro meets Akira’s stare, never one to back down from a challenge. Akira’s expression doesn’t change, nor does the intensity in his eyes dim. Even without his glasses, Akira’s gaze is somehow guarded. Goro is normally better at reading Akira, but Akira gives him nothing to read.

Shame blooms in Goro’s chest, a mottled bruise that threatens to claw up his throat.

“Your turn, Itsumi-kun.” Yusuke cuts through Goro’s thoughts again.

No matter how long it’s been, hearing the others call Goro by his mother’s name never stops being strange.

Their fingers brush as Yusuke hands him the pool cue. Goro’s skin bruises in the wake of Yusuke’s touch. All the while Akira’s eyes never leave Goro. Goro does his best to shut everyone out. Akira, Yusuke, Makoto, every god damned mouth breather crowding the bar. Goro closes his senses, focusing only on the game and the damned _mess_ Yusuke left him with.

It works for a bit. Goro pockets the first ball and begins to line up for another.

_“... actually … wanted … you …”_

Yusuke’s voice shatters the silence of Goro’s thoughts. Goro can see Yusuke and Akira talking at the edge of his peripheral vision. They’re turned in towards each other, talking in hushed voices, close enough to share breath. Akira watches Yusuke with those same patient, understanding eyes that he shows all of his friends.

Goro grips the pool cue with such force, he thinks it might crack. The shame he felt before wraps around his chest in a tight stranglehold of envy. It sparks a fire in his lungs, turning every breath into a spray of poison. Akira is _his._

This jealousy is familiar, an old coat Goro can slip into. Goro _hates_ sharing. He’s hated having to share Akira since the moment they met at the TV station. Every day, Goro struggles with the urge to tie Akira to their bed and keep Akira all to himself. If Akira never saw his friends again, he’d be heartbroken. That in itself annoys Goro. Goro hates that Akira needs his _friends._ Goro hates that he’s not _enough._

Yusuke speaks, lips curling around words that Goro can’t read. Akira nods along, listening. _“... Madarame … letter …”_

Goro hasn’t forgotten the letter. Not by a long shot. He remembers the look on Yusuke’s face, the way Yusuke’s eyes had glazed over. Goro had been there when the letter arrived, so why was Yusuke going to _Akira_ about it? Why wasn’t _Goro_ good enough?

Something new blossoms in Goro’s chest.

_Clack!_

Goro misses his shot by a mile as the cue ball skips off the table. Makoto’s, Yusuke’s, and Akira’s eyes all zero in on him, along with a gaggle of strangers. Their stares weigh him down, watching, _judging._ When Goro judges himself, he falls short in so many ways. Goro pushes down that shame and jealousy and locks it away deep in his chest. He’s spent his whole life hiding the ugly parts of himself behind a false smile.

Goro straightens up, adjusting his gloves. “Oops,” he deadpans, “my hand slipped.”

“Please try to be more careful.” Makoto returns a moment later with the stray ball. “I believe that makes it my turn.”

The game continues. At the end of the night, Goro goes home with Akira and struggles with a new jealousy. The spikes of envy that stab through Goro’s heart whenever the Phantom Thieves take too much of Akira’s time are nothing new. It’s a familiar ache, one Goro has gotten better at tending over the years. Managing his emotions is a skill like any other, improved only through time and practice. Despite Goro’s intentions all those years ago, he’s had an abundance of both.

These days, he’s better at telling his rational thoughts from his irrational ones. Akira’s love for the Phantom Thieves doesn’t mean he loves Goro less. Where Goro’s love is fractured, apportioned out in fragile shards that shatter if held too tight, Akira overflows with love. Akira has so much love to give.

In his cruelest moments, Goro wants to hoard it all to himself. He would keep Akira like something to be owned and Akira would be _his_ and his alone. But realistically, Goro knows he wouldn’t. Not anymore. Because Akira without the Phantom Thieves, without his _family,_ wouldn’t be the same infuriating, reckless, vigilante that Goro loves. No matter how much Akira loves his friends, he always comes home to Goro.

That knowledge, the security Goro feels in Akira’s love, makes it easier to let the darker thoughts pass like rain clouds overhead. Goro can’t control his thoughts or stop the trickle of jealousy in his veins. But he can recognize them for what they are: passing ugliness born from a scarred, twisted heart. Goro lets that ugliness wash over him, then watches as it flows downstream.

His jealousy of Yusuke flows through him much the same. He envies Yusuke for holding Akira’s attention, for taking him away. Just as soon as it’s there, it’s gone, because Goro has played this game a hundred times before. When it was Ryuji asking for help in his courses, Haru asking him to taste her coffee, or Futaba asking him to accompany her to Comiket, Goro fought this same battle. It gets easier every time, because no matter who Akira gives his time to, he comes home to Goro.

What’s harder to deal with is Goro’s jealousy of _Akira._

After all, it’s _that_ particular vice that landed Goro in an engine room with a gun to his head. If Goro is jealous of the Phantom Thieves, Goro can take Akira’s hand or hold him closer that night. When Goro is jealous of Akira… there’s no easy solution.

Goro has always wanted to be loved, has always wanted to be… _special._ The Phantom Thieves always go to Akira with their problems because they love him, they trust him because he’s their _favorite._ Goro was _right there_ and Yusuke went out of his way to choose _Akira_ instead. Everyone _always_ chose Akira. Even _Goro_ chose Akira.

Goro knows why Yusuke would go to Akira for advice, of course. Goro is a shitty friend at best. From the moment he was born, his life has been a parade of mistakes and poor choices. If Yusuke _had_ chosen to confide in him, Goro would only have been able to regurgitate his own resentment. Practically nothing compared to Akira’s unconditional acceptance and his uncanny ability to make problems seem so much smaller than they once were. No one in their right mind would choose Goro’s bitterness over Akira’s warmth.

But Goro _wants_ it. He wants to stand beside Akira and for _once_ find himself equal. He wants someone to pry open his ribcage, look upon his ugly, beating heart, and _choose_ him. He wants to be loved. He wants to be _needed,_ the way the Phantom Thieves _need_ Akira—would fall apart without him.

Goro wants to be someone’s favorite, just once.

* * *

Goro invites Yusuke to the jazz club. His patronage there had been part of his mask when he was Akechi. It was the exact kind of pseudo-intellectual bullshit that a faux detective would love. But as he spent time with Akira here, Goro allowed his thoughts to quiet. He allowed himself to forget about everything else and just focus on the music and a good cocktail.

Here there were no prying eyes. The warm, dim lighting hid the worst of Goro's fatigue. Any bitterness that tugged at the corners of his mouth could be played off as a trick of the light. Besides, the kind of egotists that frequented a jazz club were too self-absorbed to take notice of one lonely teenager.

The bar is full of people just like Akechi Goro; egomaniacs desperately seeking acknowledgment. A long-limbed artist and a pretend detective fit right in. Goro has been here with Akira many times, but this is his first time with anyone else. Bringing anyone but Akira into this space felt too personal, like peeling off the gloves he still wore to reveal the pale skin underneath. Too much.

But Yusuke looks around the club with sparkling eyes and a subtle smile. His sketchbook rests open on his lap. Every few minutes he hunches over, pencil scratching furiously as Yusuke chases inspiration across the page. Goro used to find Yusuke’s random bouts of inspiration annoying. Yusuke would trail off in the middle of conversation and pull out his sketchpad when something caught his eye. He had no qualms pulling out pen and paper in the middle of a crowded bar, or asking a stranger to hold a pose. The social contract that Goro chained himself to held no sway over Yusuke.

There's freedom in it now. Yusuke doesn’t follow the same social guidelines as everyone else, nor does he hold anyone to them. Before, every conversation was a game of mental chess. Akechi needed to be interesting but not obnoxious, relatable but mysterious, charming but not flirty, conversational without contradicting himself… The list went on. Every lapse in conversation had Akechi wracking his brain for a way to fill the silence, to maintain his façade before someone saw through the cracks.

Silence with Yusuke is different. There’s no rush to fill dead air, only the gentle scratch of Yusuke’s pen on paper. Goro can sit back, sip gingerly at his cocktail, and let the soft croon of the alto’s voice drift in like the tide. Eventually, Yusuke will come back to him. It’s a comfort with himself that Goro is unused to.

Goro sets down his drink and the clink of ice seems to draw Yusuke out of his trance. “Oh…” Yusuke looks at Goro’s half-empty drink, startled by the passage of time. “Forgive me, I was overcome by inspiration.”

“It’s fine.” For once, Goro means it. “May I see?”

Yusuke blinks at Goro, head slightly tilted. “Of course,” he says after a moment and turns the sketchbook so Goro can see.

Akechi never cared for art. But art inevitably revealed hidden truths about those who _did._ Akechi could read a lot about someone from the things they put out into the world—the luxuries they surrounded themselves with. Akechi would flip through magazine photoshoots of Ann, watching as her vapid frivolousness morphed into a rebellious zeal. Akechi tasted the bitter resentment in Akira’s coffee that reflected his own until it faded into a familial warmth that Akechi had never known. Akechi gazed at Yusuke’s work as the artist struggled with the ugliness of the human soul and found hope buried within.

Goro holds Yusuke’s sketchbook carefully. He doesn’t want to peel back the armor around Yusuke’s heart anymore. He just wants to see the world through Yusuke’s eyes. Most of the page is taken up by a profile of the singer, her hand wrapped around the microphone, dark-inked lips parted in song. Random sketches are drawn in a halo around her, at the edges of the page. In the top left, Goro’s own hand is wrapped around his glass, the knot of his wrist bone disappearing into his glove. Near the bottom, Muhen, hat tipped low to hide his eyes and the beading on the singer’s dress, replicated in painstaking detail. Finally, on the very edge, Goro’s own face, the curve of his lips set into a slight frown.

Goro blinks. He hadn’t been aware he was being watched. He passes the sketchbook back to Yusuke.

“Talented, as always, Kitagawa-kun.”

Yusuke nods, stowing the sketchbook in his bag along with his pens. “This place always has a certain… atmosphere to it. It evokes a particular state of mind just by being here.” Yusuke looks around the establishment with a pensive eye, trying to pinpoint the source of the feeling and finding none. “It’s a sensation I aim to capture with my work.”

“This club has a certain charm,” Goro agrees. “I’ve brought Akira many times. It’s calmer here than on the streets of Kichijoji.”

“You introduced Akira to this place, did you not?”

Goro nods. “I was hoping to cultivate a good taste in music.” That was a lie. Akechi showed Akira the jazz club to develop a false friendship and lower Akira’s guard. “Clearly I failed.”

Yusuke nods solemnly. “There are many words to describe Akira. I’m not sure tasteful is one of them.”

Despite himself, Goro’s lip curls back over his teeth in a wry smile. “You may be right. Between the two of us, you’d think he would have learned something by now.’

“No matter how I try to impress upon him the elements of fine composition, his selfies never improve,” Yusuke laments.

“Unfortunately, I fear it’s far too late to have second thoughts and we’re bound to the fool for the rest of our lives.”

Yusuke smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “There are worse things to be shackled to.”

As if Goro didn’t know _that._

A pregnant pause swells between them, where Yusuke refuses to meet Goro’s eyes. “Yes,” Goro finally says. “There certainly are.”

Silence interrupts the flow of conversation, broken only by a singer’s mellow croon. Goro watches Yusuke’s eyes grow hazy, dark gray storm clouds heavy with rain. It’s the same thing that happened before, with the letter. Back then, Yusuke chose to pretend nothing was amiss and Goro allowed him the comfort of that lie. But clearly, it still weighs on Yusuke’s mind, no matter how he tries to pretend.

Goro doesn’t want to settle for a lie this time. He wants the truth. He wants to draw it from Yusuke’s own mouth. He wants Yusuke to show him the trust he so readily gives Akira. Years ago, when Akechi needed to gain trust or sympathy, false vulnerability was his method of choice. After all, who wouldn’t pity the orphan boy whose own mother chose to leave him?

It’s easy enough to slip on an old mask. "It's funny," Goro laughs wryly. "Even after all this time, he still finds ways to control me."

Yusuke lifts his gaze to watch Goro. Goro looks away, towards the band playing on stage. He schools his expression into something solemn—eyes hooded, the corners of his mouth turned down. There’s no need to ask who Goro’s referring to.

“There’s not a single person in my life that he didn’t ruin first.” His mother, Sae, Futaba, Akira… even Yusuke.

Goro’s canines glint like steel in the dim light. Thick venom coats his teeth, dripping down sharp, pointed fangs and spilling from his mouth. He can feel it, acrid on his tongue, burning the inside of his throat. There’s nothing but poison in Goro’s veins and if he sliced open his skin he could take everyone in the bar down with him. He doesn’t care, he stopped caring _years_ ago.

“Whenever I hear someone mention that piece of shit, I want to rip the tongue from their mouth.”

Goro pauses. _Too much._ He wipes his lower lip with his thumb, pushes the venom back inside.

“No matter how I try to wipe the slate clean, he’s a permanent stain on my soul.” Goro sneers. “In the end, I’m nothing more than the puppet he saw me as.”

Silence descends on them once again. Goro hadn’t meant to reveal that much, hadn’t meant to let the full force of his anger slip through his mask. Years of wearing his true face have made him complacent. His anger is no secret to the Phantom Thieves. But Goro prefers to keep it behind closed doors. Showing his anger means exposing his bare throat to an animal. When it suits them, they won’t hesitate to bite down.

When Goro looks up, he half expects Yusuke to have fled. But Yusuke remains, leveling Goro with Fox’s unyielding stare. The rain clouds in his eyes have dispersed, leaving only the open, gray sky after a storm.

“Izuhara-senpai,” Yusuke finally says.

The name strikes a distant chord deep in Goro’s memory. A name he heard once, long forgotten.

“Izuhara… That was—”

“Madarame’s pupil,” Yusuke finishes, his gaze falling. “He took his own life.”

Right. Akechi had heard the name in passing while he kept abreast of Shido’s affairs and again when the Phantom Thieves stole Madarame’s heart. At the time, it had only piqued Akechi's interest because of the negative attention on Madarame. If Izuhara’s suicide invited too much scrutiny, it could lead back to Shido. It was Akechi’s job to make Madarame disappear before it came to that. But Madarame had stamped out the rumors himself without Akechi needing to lift a finger and Akechi had turned his gaze to other targets.

Izuhara had never been more to Akechi than another problem to solve. Distantly, Akira’s voice tells Goro that he should feel something. He should mourn this tragic loss of life or rage at the adults that took it. But all Goro remembers is annoyance that Madarame couldn’t even clean up his own mess properly.

“We were never close,” Yusuke continues, idly running his finger over the rim of his glass. “But he and the other pupils were the closest thing I ever had to siblings.”

Goro understands and at the same time he doesn’t. A revolving cast of children had constantly been in and out of the group home. Some of them ran away, only to be dragged back kicking and screaming. A few of them had tried to take their own lives, though none of them ever succeeded while Goro knew them. Goro would never venture to call any of them his siblings.

“I was barely thirteen when…” Yusuke swallows thickly. “I always thought he was so much older, so mature. But now I’m the age he was when he died and for the first time I realize just how much was stolen from him.”

Ah. There it is. “Now that you’re Izuhara-san’s age, you’ve been thinking about him.”

“Not only that,” Yusuke sighs. “I… received a letter.” Goro leans forward in his chair, attention piqued. “They’ve finally finished apportioning Madarame’s estate.”

Now _that_ was interesting. “The old bastard hasn’t died already, has he?”

Yusuke flinches visibly. “No,” he snaps. “But the government seized his assets to pay reparations. I suppose they’ve finally decided on my share.”

Goro raises an eyebrow. “Should I ask you to pay for drinks then?”

That at least earns a bitter laugh. “Hardly. After settling his debts and paying damages to the other pupils there’s not much money left.” Yusuke sighs. “Besides, I have the _Sayuri_ and the rest of my mother’s work. Those were the most valuable pieces in his collection.”

“If you already have his Treasure then what’s left?”

Yusuke shrugs. “I’m not sure.” Yusuke’s eyes flash with the glint of cold steel. “To be honest, I don’t _care._ I want nothing to do with anything that man’s sullied.” Bone-white teeth flash behind Yusuke’s lips, razor-sharp canines dragging across sharper words.

“It’s as you said. He saw me as a portrait on his wall, an _object._ Yet just when I’ve finally escaped the canvas he finds a way to control me. Some people still call me Madarame’s pupil, they still have the _nerve_ to ask me about him after all I’ve done to distance myself. To some people, that’s all I will ever be.”

Yusuke slumps forward, elbows pillowed on his knees. “This letter is just another reminder that he’ll always be a part of me, no matter how I try to scrub myself clean.”

That anger is something Goro understands. It’s the vitriol that runs in Goro’s veins, the rage he holds at bay every time he speaks. Watching Yusuke spit that same venom is intoxicating. Goro wants to lick that poison from Yusuke’s teeth and breathe fire into his open mouth.

“Don’t you just want to burn it all to the ground?” Goro asks, breathless.

Yusuke’s hands curl into white-knuckled fists. “Sometimes,” he admits. “The older I get, the more I wish…” Yusuke trails off, lower lip pinched between his teeth.

“You wish…?” Goro goads.

Yusuke shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “No amount of money will bring Izuhara-senpai back. I could have so easily been him. If I’d suffered under Madarame all this time... if I’d never met the Phantom Thieves…”

An unfamiliar ache blooms in Goro’s heart. The thought of Yusuke hurting, hurting _himself_ makes Goro want to claw at his own skin. Furthermore, Goro himself owes his life to the ragtag group of vigilantes known as the Phantom Thieves. If they’d never changed his heart, Goro would likely be dead, whether by Shido’s hand or his own.

“I suppose we’re lucky, then,” Goro sighs. “That Akira and the rest of you don’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Yusuke laughs wetly. “He really doesn’t, does he?”

“And he certainly hasn’t learned.”

Yusuke takes a moment to collect his thoughts, to wipe at his eyes while Goro pointedly looks away. “Ann would tell me that the harshest punishment is to leave him alive,” Yusuke murmurs, so quiet Goro has to lean in to hear. “To make him suffer for what he did for the rest of his life.”

Yusuke takes a shuddering breath before he continues. “But _her_ friend is still alive.”

Goro thinks of his mother: tousled honey-brown hair falling into red eyes, homemade sweets still warm from the oven, and poorly constructed blanket forts, where they huddled together to stave off the cold. His mother’s side was the only place he’d ever belonged.

“Loss… changes everything,” Goro chokes.

Yusuke solemnly nods. “I don’t regret what we did, or think we made the wrong choice. But sometimes…” Yusuke lifts his gaze and locks eyes with Goro.

All Goro sees is a steel-edged katana.

“Sometimes I wish you’d gotten to him first.”

Goro blinks in surprise. For once, he doesn’t know how to respond. Yusuke’s gaze falls, the storm clouds returning to cloud his vision.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to bring up the past.”

“It’s fine.”

Goro doesn’t give a fuck about his past. He did what he did and he doesn’t regret it. But part of him wishes he’d killed Madarame instead. Yusuke curls his long limbs into his body, trying to make himself as small as possible. Goro tries to imagine what Akira would do. Providing comfort is more Akira’s skill than Goro.

Slowly, Goro reaches out to lay his leather-clad hand over Yusuke’s. Goro isn’t a tactile person but he’ll make an exception. Yusuke startles at the touch but doesn’t pull away. Yusuke looks up to meet Goro’s gaze with a curious eye. Their faces are close enough to share breath.

Goro licks his lips. “I would have made him suffer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: discussion of past abuse, discussion of past suicide, intrusive destructive/impulsive thoughts, Goro's massive inferiority complex
> 
> you can come talk to me on [tumblr](https://aceklaviergavin.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/aceklaviergavin)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for everyone who left comments on the previous chapter! im so glad i've brought everyone's attention to akeshukita.
> 
> detailed warnings in the end notes

Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Goro learned that lesson long ago when he fell in love and put a bullet through Akira’s brain. Goro loves Akira and hates him just as much. These days, love usually wins out.

There’s comfort in the life they’ve built together. The kitchen of their small apartment always smells like Blue Mountain. A stool sits by the counter, stacked high with books so that Morgana can reach. A shelf in their bedroom displays a plastic bowl of ramen alongside Goro’s ray gun. Their bed smells like Akira, though Akira insists it smells like Goro. Their lives intertwine, two threads of fate irreversibly woven together.

Every morning Goro wakes to Akira’s sleeping face—peaceful, _trusting._ Goro waits for Akira to wake and wonders if he really gets to keep _this._ The venom stays at bay, festering in a closed-off corner of Goro's soul.

But sometimes, that familiar viper rears its ugly head, slithers out from between Goro's ribs, and sinks its fangs into his veins. Those days, all Goro can think about is the weight of a pistol in his hand and just how good it felt to pull the trigger. His skin shatters apart like glass until he's certain that if he has to breathe the same air as Akira for _one more second,_ one of them will wind up dead.

He still remembers the spray of blood across the interrogation room. The bullet burst out the back of Akira’s skull and his head fell open like a rose in bloom. He had posed Akira’s body, for once the puppetmaster and not the toy. He’d gone home, turned his shower hotter than he could stand, and puked bile down the drain. In the dark of their bedroom, sometimes the shadows pool beneath Akira’s head like blood. Goro has to reach over, place his fingers against Akira’s neck, and search for the steady staccato of Akira’s heart.

Then he imagines wrapping his hands around the column of Akira’s throat.

On nights like these, Goro holds vigil on their small balcony, watching the sunset over the Tokyo skyline. They've traced the steps of this dance many times; Akira knows to stay away, both for his peace and Goro's own. Sometimes Morgana will join him; he'll wordlessly balance on the railing and watch the sparrows fly past. The cicadas chirp in the darkness, joining the hum of the streetlights below.

Tonight, it's just him, struggling with the specter of his own thoughts. The sun has long dipped past the horizon, darkness falling over the streets of Chiyoda. He feels safe here, with Akira, in this space they’ve carved out for themselves. He’s… as close to happy as he’s ever been. But he doesn’t understand how Akira can feel safe with _him._

No matter how happy he is, that snake coiled around his heart is Goro’s oldest friend. A part of him will always put a match to gasoline, just to watch it burn. It's _disgusting._ Goro has so much more than he's ever earned and he still longs to tear it all down. He's never been satisfied.

The door leading into their apartment slides open, a pair of footsteps joining him on the balcony. Goro doesn’t turn around, gaze fixated on the lights of Shibuya in the distance, but he doesn’t tell Akira to leave, either. Gently, a thick wool coat falls over Goro’s shoulders. Goro wraps himself in it to block out the evening chill. When he breathes in, he smells coffee and turmeric. Akira’s, then.

“You’ve been out here a long time,” Akira says flatly, without judgment.

Goro hums wordlessly. He hasn’t been keeping track. When he first stepped out, it had been early evening. Now, the sun is set, cloaking Tokyo in a shroud of darkness. Akira keeps his distance, standing at the other end of the balcony. He watches Goro with a careful eye. Akira’s always been better at reading Goro than anyone else, but even he struggles when Goro closes himself off like this.

It would be easier if Goro just told him what’s wrong.

“I made you coffee.” Akira sets a plastic cup by Goro’s elbow as a peace offering.

Steam rises from the cup like smoke from the burning wreckage of a disgusting cruiser. Goro takes the cup slowly, hands curling around it. He takes a long sip and the floral notes of Goro’s favorite blend spill over his tongue. It scalds his mouth. The cup itself is almost hot enough to burn. But Goro holds it close anyway.

Goro lowers the drink with a pinched frown. “Decaf,” he grumbles.

Akira shrugs. “It’s late.”

It is. But Goro doubts he’ll be getting much sleep caffeine or no. Goro sips slowly at his coffee while Akira looks on in silence. Goro watches the lights of Shibuya in the distance, ever-present even on the darkest night. Akira hangs at the edge of Goro’s thoughts like a physical weight. He always has.

But Akira stays quiet, eyes searching. He watches Goro, and Goro watches the city. Akira taught Goro the value of silence. There was comfort in just existing, side-by-side. For the first time, Goro didn’t rush to fill the dead air, desperate to hold Akira’s attention, afraid that if Akira looked too long, he would see the cracks in Goro’s armor. Akira was the only person he could be silent with.

The only person until…

“Is it Yusuke?”

Goro's heart drops through the pit of his stomach. His hand tightens around the cup, its heat the only thing keeping him tethered to his body. He feels more animal than human. He’s a cornered beast with bared teeth. Instinct tells him to fight his way out, to claw out Akira’s eyes for seeing something Goro meant to keep hidden.

He holds his breath and lets the feeling pass. Water flowing to the ocean.

“Am I really that obvious?” Goro sighs.

Akira’s face splits into a gentle smile filled with mirth. “You almost got us kicked out of Penguin Sniper.”

Right. “Not my finest moment.”

Akira shrugs. “I think honesty is a good look on you.”

Goro hums, eyes falling to the coffee in his hands. Darkness colors the brew a murky black, an oil spill along the coast. He takes a sip, but it’s still just coffee. Goro braces himself for the worst. He’s been waiting for years for the other shoe to drop. This ideal he’s been living can’t last forever. Goro doesn’t _get_ nice things, he doesn’t _get_ people who love him. One day, Akira is going to realize that and walk out of Goro’s life forever.

If Goro truly cared about Akira, he’d let him.

Akira sighs. “Goro, I love _you.”_

The words pierce Goro’s heart with hooked barbs.

“These feelings won’t change that,” Akira continues. “I made a commitment to _you._ I won’t break it, no matter what.”

Akira and promises. Always holding people at their word. But Akira’s relentless faith in humanity has bled into the cage around Goro’s heart. It hurts when his heart swells.

“And what makes you so certain that I won’t break mine? That one day I won’t get tired of you and cast you aside?” Goro snaps, finally turning to meet Akira’s eye.

Akira watches Goro, piercing deep into Goro’s eyes. It’s unnerving. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

Goro scoffs. “Just because you’re studying to be a counselor doesn’t make you qualified to psychoanalyze me.”

Akira lets out a frustrated sigh. A sick thrill lights in Goro’s heart, squashed immediately by guilt. When Akira tries to reach out, it always goes like this. Avoid, deflect, accuse. It’s a minor miracle that they ever get anywhere.

Akira leans forward, bracing his arms on the railing. “I don’t know that you won’t get tired of me. If I wake up and you’re not there, I panic, because I think maybe this has all been a very good dream.” Akira twirls his bangs around his finger. “But I know you’re here, now. I’m willing to risk getting hurt to be with you.”

Goro refuses to meet Akira’s gaze. “Reckless,” he grumbles.

Akira just smiles. “You came back to me after everything, despite the odds. That has to mean something.”

Goro rolls his eyes. “Yes, it means some god, or demon, or something in between thought it would be funny if I had to live out the rest of my mundane existence.”

Akira tentatively slots his hand into Goro’s. “I’ll be sure to give them my thanks.”

Goro stares at their clasped hands, bare palms pressed together. Akira’s fingers are calloused from long days at Leblanc. Scars crisscross over his knuckles from where the knife has nicked him time and time again. If you set a dagger into his palm, his hand would curl around it like a glove. Goro’s hands are clean, unscarred, and nails perfectly trimmed. But they’ve bathed in so much blood that his skin is permanently stained.

Akira’s touch brands his skin.

“I have everything I’ve ever wanted and it’s still not enough,” Goro laughs darkly.

Akira threads his fingers with Goro’s. “You can’t help how you feel.”

God, he _still_ sounds like Goro’s therapist. “I fell in love with _you_ and put a bullet in your head. What am I going to do to Kitagawa-kun?”

“Just because—” Akira stops mid-sentence. “You have feelings for Yusuke?” he gasps.

Goro glares at him, yanking his hand from Akira’s grasp. “That’s what we’ve been talking about for the last five minutes! Do you not stop to use your brain when you open your mouth?”

Akira’s hand falls limply to his side as he stares at Goro with a stunned expression. “I was talking about _my_ feelings for Yusuke!”

 _“You_ have—” Goro catches himself.

They lock eyes, finding a perfect mirror of their own shock. Finally, Akira breaks into laughter. It starts as a nervous chuckle. Akira shoves a hand over his mouth, trying to dam up the well. But the levee breaks, and he bursts into a fit of giggles. He hunches over, bracing himself on the balcony, his laughter joining the cicada’s trill.

Goro fights back his own smirk. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he deadpans.

Akira straightens up, wiping his eyes. “I was so _nervous,”_ he gasps.

Goro empathizes in that regard. Goro had been certain Akira would leave. Goro is difficult to handle on a good day. The edges of his soul are razor-sharp, and when Akira reaches out he inevitably slices himself on the shards. If Akira learned that Goro’s heart had strayed, what reason would he have to stay?

“I thought you were jealous,” Akira laughs.

Goro’s first instinct is to deflect, to snap back at Akira for presuming to know what Goro feels. But he’s worked on himself for years. He knows his first instinct isn’t always the best. Besides...

“I _am_ jealous,” Goro snaps. “I haven’t suddenly become a good person.”

Akira’s laughter suddenly dies. The cicadas echo his voice. Goro wishes he’d held tighter to Akira’s warmth. Akira’s brows draw together, concern coloring his eyes. _Goro_ did that, took Akira’s laughter, and shattered it like glass.

“Goro—”

“Save it.” Goro waves him off.

He doesn’t need Akira to tell him those self-deprecating thoughts are unhelpful. Goro _knows_ it’s unhealthy. Every time he puts voice to those thoughts it’s another step back. Enough steps and he’ll sink back into the deep pit Akira had found him in. He’ll discuss it with his therapist later. Right now, Goro slips into that familiar space like a second skin.

Defiance burns in Akira’s eyes, lips parted, prepared to argue. A moment passes, and with a heavy sigh, he closes his mouth. After all this time with Goro, Akira knows to pick his battles. This is one he’s fought many times before, and he’ll continue to fight many times after. Against Goro’s self-loathing, Akira will always lose.

Goro pulls Akira’s coat tighter around himself. “What happens now?” he asks.

The question hangs in the air like suspended glass, ringing with a fragility that Goro despises. It falls, and it’s Akira’s turn to catch before it shatters against the ground.

Akira would never let Goro down like that. “That’s up to us, isn’t it?” He chances with tentative hope. “The three of us?”

Goro’s heart knots in his throat at the promise in Akira’s voice. He imagines a reality where it’s no longer just Goro and Akira but Goro and Akira _and…_ Goro still isn’t used to _this_ reality, where he’s alive and in love and nearing an approximation of happiness. Can he really ask for more? Does he _deserve_ more?

He doesn’t dare to hope.

Akira sighs, pinching his hair between his fingers. “Everything I said before still stands.” He inches closer to Goro, little by little. “Nothing has to change. Just because we have feelings doesn’t mean we have to act on them. I’m committed to _you._ I won’t do anything without your consent.”

Goro’s first instinct is to duck into the comfort of familiarity. Things are… as close to good as they’ve ever been. Goro’s comfortable with Akira, their partnership is a familiar dance to which Goro knows every step. Even on his worst days, he can play his part. Akira knows how to handle him, when to hang back and when to push forward. Goro is… _reasonably_ certain that if Akira hasn’t left him after everything, he’s likely here to stay. Goro could be… _content_ with what they have.

Change brings uncertainty, and the possibility of it falling apart. A hundred potential realities tangle together, each one a different tragic ending. In one Akira realizes that Yusuke is so much easier to love and leaves Goro behind. In another, Yusuke only returns Akira’s feelings, and the jealousy breaks Goro to pieces. And finally, despite all the love that Yusuke and Akira have to offer, Goro spits it back in their faces. Goro never needed anybody's help to raze everything to the ground.

Akira’s hand slips into Goro’s, a familiar embrace to tether Goro’s errant thoughts. “I don’t want to lose this,” Goro admits quietly.

“You won’t,” Akira says, so surely that Goro wants to believe him. “No matter what happens, I’m with you.”

“How can you promise that?” Goro asks, the sharp edge to his voice threatening to cut Akira’s skin. “I wasn’t aware precognition was one of your powers as well.”

“It’s not,” Akira chuckles. “But I know how I feel about you. And I know what I’m willing to do to keep you.” Akira’s eyes glint mischievously despite the darkness. “I fought a god once, I’d do it again.”

The full force of Akira’s love washes over Goro, stays the burning fire in his cold heart. Goro can’t _bear_ it. He tears his eyes away and looks to the lights shining over Shibuya.

Akira squeezes his hand and continues. “If you’re okay loving him from afar, that’s enough. Or if you can't keep yourself from kissing his pretty face, I'm fine with that, too.”

Goro breathes out a wry laugh. “How am I supposed to know?” He shakes his head. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

And Goro had hurt him, hurt him again, and never stopped hurting him. There isn’t a thing that Goro’s wanted that he hasn’t fought for with blood, sweat, and tears. When he couldn’t have it, he tried to drive the whole country to ruin for his own satisfaction. Goro isn’t good at _wanting_ things. He’s even worse at getting them.

“Twenty years old and you don’t know how to deal with a crush?” Akira teases gently.

“Fuck you,” Goro spits without any venom.

But he supposes that’s the root of his problems. One of them, anyway. He doesn’t know what to do with this unnamed emotion blooming inside his chest. It burns whenever Yusuke smiles and sings when he speaks. One day, Goro’s heart is going to burst open like a seed, and that yearning will pry open his ribs in search of the sun.

The last time Goro had felt anything like this, he’d tried to kill everyone in arms’ reach before putting a bullet in his own head. Goro has no plans of dying anytime soon, nor does he want to take Yusuke down with him. When Goro allows himself to think of the future, he envisions himself there, at least for Akira’s sake, if not his own.

If dying to escape his feelings isn’t an option, what else is left?

“You Phantom Thieves are all alike,” Goro scoffs. “I let my guard down for a moment and the both of you worm your way into my heart like you fucking own the place.”

“Really, you should’ve seen it coming.” Akira’s voice is light, dancing on the spring breeze. “Stealing hearts is what we do after all.”

Akira pauses for a moment to take Goro in. Goro stares resolutely into the distance, shadows darkening the hollows of his eyes. Broken capillaries tint his cheeks red, and small acne scars line the divot of his chin. He’s more real now than he ever was back then.

Akira’s gaze weighs on Goro’s skin. “After the engine room, Yusuke said something that always stuck with me.” When Akira speaks, Goro turns to catch his eye. “He said that if he hadn’t met us, he might have turned into you.”

In a world without the Phantom Thieves, without Akira and the others, what would have become of Kitagawa Yusuke? How far would he go for his Sensei’s approval? Would he have ever removed the wool covering his eyes? And if he had, what then?

Once, Goro had been alone, and hurting, and angry. The only thing he knew to do was hurt the world that had hurt him.

Needles prick the back of Goro’s eyes. “That’s ridiculous,” Goro croaks.

“To be honest, I felt the same way he did. Still do.” Akira squeezes Goro’s hand. “But Yusuke gets it in a way that I can’t. He lived through it.”

 _Lives_ through it, Goro wants to say. Madarame’s influence doesn’t simply end now that he’s in prison. It’s irreparably woven into the fabric of Yusuke’s soul, embedded in the very things he holds dear. To excise it would mean to rip out Yusuke’s still-beating heart. Shido is much the same. The only difference between them is that Goro’s anger runs through his veins, simmering just below the surface, while Yusuke keeps his locked away.

“I want to do something for him,” Goro says suddenly, an idea pulled from his mind fully formed. “But I need your help.”

* * *

Ironic, that after everything Goro ends up committing mail fraud anyway. He invites himself over to Yusuke’s for another modeling session and tries to ignore the rush when Yusuke’s eyes linger on his form. Then, when Yusuke’s back is turned, Goro digs through his trash. He finds the letter under a pile of empty acrylics, stained blue at the edges. It’s a terrible invasion of privacy but it’s not like the letter says anything Yusuke hasn’t already told him. Goro just needs a name.

Afterward, he passes the contact along to Futaba. A simple phishing email gets her access to the District Court’s servers. She shows Goro her bootlegs of the Featherman stage play on her tablet while her computer runs a database mining batch routine. He sits next to her on the floor, the whole time thinking that Wakaba screamed when she died. After three hours and two bowls of instant yakisoba, Futaba returns an address for a storage container in Kawasaki.

That’s where Goro finds himself in the middle of the night. Some forged documents and Haru’s innocent smile had been enough to get them past the nighttime security guard. She idles the van a few yards away. It’s hardly as stylish as the Mona bus, but it’ll do. Goro leans against the metal paneled shipping container, tonight’s Palace, and watches with mild fascination as Akira struggles with the lock.

“Disgraceful,” Goro tuts. “And you call yourself a Phantom Thief?”

“I’m retired!” Akira says defensively.

Once, Akira’s favorite lockpick had fit into his hand like a surgeon’s knife. There was no such thing as security when met with Akira’s deft fingers. Now, the pick is awkward in his palm, his movements imprecise and unwieldy. Secrets that used to fall open at the flick of Akira’s wrist now lay barred behind one rusted padlock.

“I can’t believe all I needed to beat you was a shitty Master Lock.”

“I’d like to see you do better,” Akira grumbles.

 _“I’m_ not the leader of the Phantom Thieves.”

“What, Mister Detective Prince never had to get into someplace he wasn’t wanted?”

 _I’ve never been wanted anywhere,_ Goro doesn’t say. “I usually just smiled and they let me in.” Goro flashes Akira a smile now, all razor-sharp teeth. “Failing that, I had a gun.”

Akira fumbles with the lock, cursing at the tumblers fall back into place once more.

“I brought some bolt cutters!” Ryuji calls from the van.

“I got it!” Akira shouts back, jamming his lockpick into the pins with renewed vigor.

Akira is lucky that the yard is empty and that there’s no one around to witness his sloppy thievery. This close to the harbor, everything smells vaguely of fish. If they stay here too long, Goro is never going to get the smell of tuna out of his shirt.

“Fucking Yusuke,” Akira grumbles. “What is it with him and locks?”

“It’s almost as if the universe is trying to tell you something and you don’t know how to take a hint.”

“Guys, chill.” Ryuji claps Goro on the shoulder, cutting off his retort.

Goro’s eyes snap to Ryuji’s hand where it lingers on his jacket. Ryuji either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care and keeps his hold. Goro meets Ryuji’s gaze with a piercing glare. The corner of Ryuji’s mouth curls up in a self-satisfied smirk. Dread fills Goro’s gut and he knows he’s going to _hate_ the next thing that comes out of Ryuji’s mouth.

“This lover’s spat is cute and all, but can you save the foreplay for when you’re at home?” Ryuji laughs, clearly proud of himself.

 _Ugh._ Goro throws up in his mouth a little. “Funny,” he deadpans. “How long did you sit in the car coming up with that one?”

Akira cuts off Ryuji’s reply with a triumphant “nice!” as the lock clicks open and the chains bolting the door fall.

 _“Finally,”_ Goro groans, shrugging off Ryuji’s touch. _“Our cat_ could have picked that lock faster than you.”

Akira straightens up, tucking his tools back into their case. “Y’know, a _thank you_ would be nice every once in a while.”

Ryuji claps his hands together. _“Okay,_ let’s get this show on the road!”

With practiced ease, Akira and Ryuji sync up. They kneel, grabbing both ends of the metal door. Months of fire-forged comradery haven’t faded, even after all this time. They don’t even need a count-off before yanking the door up.

The wash of jealousy is familiar. Goro holds his breath, counts to five, and watches it pass. The door shrieks as it lifts, metal grinding against metal. It cuts through the quiet of the sleepy harbor district. Goro glances around warily to make sure they haven’t drawn any unwanted attention. But the night is still, and the only people in the vicinity are three former thieves and a fake detective.

The track catches, holding the door open wide. Darkness cloaks the inside, Goro can only make out vague outlines in the darkness. There’s only enough space for one person to step in, the rest taken up by shadows. Akira gestures for Goro to step inside.

“Your Treasure awaits,” he says with a dramatic bow.

“My hero,” Goro says flatly and takes the first step into the storage unit.

The smell of fish fades; a small blessing. Instead, Goro is struck by a wave of mothballs and mold. When he inhales, it feels like breathing into a sand dune. He sputters, mouth full of dust and stale air. The column of his throat itches like hell, and Goro keels over, coughing into his elbow.

Behind him, Ryuji wrinkles his nose. “It smells just like that old fart’s house,” he coughs.

Akira pulls his shirt up over his nose, fumbling with his phone to turn on the flashlight. White light streaks across Goro’s back, casting the shadows out of sight, along with a couple of rats. Goro’s eyes adjust to the light and he looks on the spoils of their infiltration.

It’s a bunch of junk.

“This is it?” Ryuji asks incredulously, eyeing the ragged, paint-splattered furniture stacked to the unit’s ceiling. _“This_ is what that piece of shit thinks Yusuke deserves for everything he went through?”

“I think it’s less what he ‘deserves’ and more what’s ‘left.’” Goro scowls, staring at an uneven coffee table. He’s sure if he glares at it hard enough it’ll collapse.

“This is all Madarame’s old furniture,” Akira says. He directs the flashlight to a bookshelf near the door. “That used to be in Yusuke’s room.”

Ryuji slams his fist against the wall. _Clang!_ The whole container shakes and the screech of metal rings hollow. Goro’s teeth vibrate inside his jaw. He’s not sure if it’s the sound or the anger curled in his fists.

“This is so effed up!” Ryuji shouts.

“Be quiet! Being a loud brute isn’t going to make it any better.” Goro would never say it, but for once he agrees with Ryuji.

Akira puts his hand on Ryuji’s shoulder before Ryuji takes a swing at Goro. “Yeah, it’s bullshit. That’s why we’re getting rid of it.”

“Right.” Ryuji exhales his anger in a cloud of smoke. “Let’s get this crap out of here!”

Akira and Ryuji start loading Madarame’s old furniture into the back of the van. They hadn’t been sure what exactly Madarame had left behind. Haru had donated one of her café’s cargo vans to the cause. She had offered to rent a loading truck, but they had quickly decided that would attract too much attention. With some strategic planning, Goro thinks the van might be _just_ enough.

Ryuji unsuccessfully tries to squeeze an old CRT television in between a bookshelf and the wall. Goro watches with folded arms and refuses to lift a finger.

“No matter how many times you push on it, it’s not going to get smaller,” Goro points out.

Ryuji just pushes harder, digging his heels into the floor of the truck. “You always were a quitter,” he grunts.

Goro drums his fingers against his own bicep. “If you unload the bookshelf and turn the table upside down—”

“You want to start over _again?”_

“If you stacked efficiently the _first_ time we wouldn’t have to.”

Ryuji sets the monitor on the ground and shoots Goro a withering glare. “If you’re so damn smart, why don’t _you_ do the heavy lifting?”

Goro smiles beatifically, eyes shining with a hollow innocence. “That would ruin my manicure.”

Akira is struggling with an old chair and therefore too busy to keep Ryuji from wringing Goro’s neck, so it’s up to Haru to step in. “There’s no need to start over!”

Effortlessly, she brushes past the two men and hops into the back of the van. Sunflowers line the hem of her dress, skimming the ground as she kneels. She runs her palms over the low table at the bottom of their furniture tower. She tugs a couple of times on one of the legs, testing its weight.

“This furniture is pretty old,” she hums, both hands wrapping around the nearest leg. “I think if we just…” She braces herself and _shoves._

Wood splinters with a sickening _crack,_ the ratty old table practically collapsing in a shower of dust. The tower of furniture wobbles. Ryuji nearly leaps up to take the blow. But Haru stands up, brushing the dust off her skirt and gestures to the perfect, monitor sized space clear away at the top of the stack.

Ryuji whistles, watching Haru with wide eyes. “Damn, Haru!”

“It was nothing!” She holds out her hands for Ryuji to pass her the TV.

Goro clears his throat, shaking off his surprise. “That was rather efficient, Okumura-san.” Haru had always been strong, but it was easy to forget this is the same woman that drove an ax into his clavicle.

Haru takes the weight of the monitor and heaves it on top without so much as a grunt. “I’ve picked a few things up from Mako-chan,” she says sweetly.

“...Right.” Goro isn’t sure if the threat in her words is intentional.

Akira breaks the tension, dropping an old wicker chair by Ryuji’s feet. “We’re almost done. There’s just a few things left in the back.”

Ryuji hoists the chair up, passing it to Haru in the van. “Did that shitstain leave Yusuke anything of actual value?” he gripes.

Akira shrugs. “Doesn’t look like it.”

Goro retreats back to the unit. Only a few pieces of furniture remain, these even dustier and worn than the rest. An old desk with chipped wood rests against the left wall inside the carcass of an old bed frame. Goro never saw the inside of Madarame’s shack personally. He saw pictures during the press coverage and he’d heard descriptions from the Phantom Thieves themselves. Idly, he wonders if the dust and mold coating the inside of the container had existed in Madarame’s home as well. When Yusuke took a breath, did he breathe in the stale air along with Madarame’s lies?

A shadow looms against the far wall, only visible now that everything else has been cleared away. Akira’s flashlight stutters over its outline. The assassin lurking in Goro’s heart expects it to slink off the wall, bursting apart before Goro’s eyes into an embodiment of human desire. His fingers twitch for a gun he no longer carries.

The shadow lies still. “What’s that?” Ryuji asks.

Akira squints into the darkness. “I can’t tell.”

“How many times have I told you to get your eyes checked?” Goro asks.

Goro can’t see anything either, but Akira doesn’t need to know that. He takes a step closer. Something crinkles underfoot. When Goro looks down, he finds the edge of a black tarp.

 _Ah,_ Goro thinks. _That’s one mystery solved, then._

Goro bends down, grabs it with both hands, and throws it back with the same flourish he used to rip the mask from his flesh. He holds his breath against the cloud of dust, dancing in the beam of Akira’s flashlight like fairy fire.

It settles over Goro like a second skin. Light catches on dark raven hair, a crimson red dress, and an impenetrable fog hiding a mother’s love. This time, Goro has to swallow the bile climbing in his throat.

“What the _fuck!”_ Ryuji shouts, rattling the walls.

A dozen copies of the false _Sayuri_ stare back at them, lined up against the wall like little soldiers. No doubt, Madarame had intended to sell these before his confession, before the Phantom Thieves carved out his rotting heart. Then they’d been seized by the police, held up in the court system as evidence for years, then left to rot in a dirty storage unit while lawyers argued on how to divide Madarame’s wealth.

For once, even Akira doesn’t try to calm Ryuji down.

“Why would they make Yusuke go through this again?” Ryuji growls, kicking the bed frame. “Do they think this is some kind of joke?”

The frame shudders and threatens to burst apart.

“I guess… because it’s rightfully his,” Akira says thoughtfully, twirling his hair between his fingers. “Even if it hurts.”

Ryuji deflates slightly. “Still. It’s messed up to make him pick up Madarame’s trash.”

“It’s a good thing we’re doing it for him then, isn’t it?”

The paintings are easy, they only take a few minutes to load into the back of the van. The hardest part for Goro is quelling the urge to tear the canvas in half. If he had a lighter, he’d set the whole truck ablaze and watch everything inside it crumble to ash.

When Goro’s mother died, they sold all her worldly possessions, save for a few keepsakes they allowed Goro to hold onto. He kept her note, a few photos, a couple of toys. The toys went missing after a couple of days. One of the other children shredded the photos to pieces soon after. His foster mother confiscated the note after she read it. When Goro tries to remember the words, they slip through his fingers like water.

Yusuke is lucky. When Goro had been hurt, and angry, and vengeful he’d had nothing to burn.

* * *

Yusuke wakes with the sun every morning. Madarame had insisted on it, back when he lived in the atelier. Electricity was expensive, therefore it was vital to make use of daylight. Of course, Madarame had more than enough wealth to keep the lights on, he simply wanted to squeeze as much value out of his students as possible. That philosophy stayed with Yusuke through high school, when every yen saved on power could be put toward his work.

Yusuke no longer has to worry about the power turning off. But no matter how much time passes, his childhood is a part of him. _Madarame_ is a part of him, an old stain on his soul that he can never fully wipe clean.

It’s still dark when he opens his eyes. He rises from his futon, back popping as he does. Carefully, he folds the futon and sheets, until his bed is nothing more than a pile of blankets. His apartment has much more space than his dorm at Kosei or even his room at the atelier. But Yusuke has existed in small spaces his whole life.

It’s only a few steps to the kitchen, where Yusuke sets the teapot on the stove. While he waits for the water to boil, he sits on the yoga mat in the living room. He faces the eastmost window, where he can begin to see sunrise coloring the sky. He begins his morning stretches. Starting with his fingers, to the wrist, up through his arm to the shoulder, then down through his whole body.

He takes his time, giving every muscle in his arms time to wake up. He pulls his fingers back until he feels the stretch in his forearm flexors then _holds._ He goes through every muscle in his arms: extensors, abductors, biceps. When he’s done with one arm, he switches to the other.

His body is a tool, and just like he rinses his brushes he needs to maintain his body, as well. That’s something he had to learn on his own. Madarame drove his pupils into the ground until they collapsed under the weight of their own tattered dreams. They were never meant to come out on the other side.

Yusuke’s muscles loosen, oil easing the joints of a finely tuned machine. By the time the teapot goes off, his arms ache with a pleasant burn. Yusuke pushes himself up and goes to steep his tea. When he checks his phone for the first time that morning, he finds a message from Akira.

> **Akira [6:34]:** do you have time to drop by leblanc this morning
> 
> **Akira [6:38]:** theres free food in it for you
> 
> **Yusuke [7:01]:** My apologies, I was doing my morning stretches.
> 
> **Yusuke [7:01]:** I always have time for you.
> 
> **Akira [7:01]:** awesome just swing by whenever.
> 
> **Yusuke [7:01]:** Can I ask why the sudden invitation?
> 
> **Akira [7:03]:** customers cant talk now

It’s rather cryptic, but then again, Akira is a man of few words. Much of what Akira says swings wildly between cryptic, ominous, or rude. Sometimes all three. The quickest way to solve this mystery is to simply walk to Leblanc himself.

The walk to Yongen-Jaya is nearly an hour by train. The cars are packed full during the morning rush. Haggard businessmen sweat through their suits as they crowd the train and sleepy-eyed high schoolers scarf down breakfast. Yusuke gets sandwiched between two high school girls gossiping about their favorite idols.

“Have you got tickets to Rin-kun’s concert yet?”

“I want to but my parents said I can’t go unless I get my grades up!”

“That’s such a bummer, oh my god! I bet we could get Hirano-senpai to tutor you!”

“I think it’ll take more than that to make my parents happy.”

Yusuke recognizes the familiar blue of Kosei’s uniforms, hardly changed in the years since he graduated. Yusuke feels utterly ancient, listening to these high schoolers talk about idols, and their parents, and grades. When Yusuke had been in high school, his biggest concern was avoiding political assassination at the hands of Shido.

But even before then—before the Phantom Thieves—Yusuke had never been interested in pop culture. Or rather, he’d never been _allowed_ to. It had been one of the many things that isolated him from his peers. While other students listened to music or played games with their friends, Yusuke worried about whether Sensei could use his most recent painting, and whether he could stretch out the food in the fridge for the rest of the week.

Even after Madarame was gone, other students chatted about their crushes above Yusuke’s head while he painted until his wrist ached. He had to keep painting to keep a roof over his head, to keep food in his belly. He’d exchanged one prison for another, and in the end, nothing had really changed. He had to keep painting.

At sixteen, Yusuke carried a bone-deep weariness on his shoulders. Despite being one of the youngest in his class, Yusuke had always felt like an old soul. He used to think that he was simply more mature than his peers, that they lacked the direction that Sensei provided him. After Madarame’s change of heart, he attributed his maturity to the Phantom Thieves, and the sense of purpose they provided him

But perhaps he was wrong all this time. Yusuke’s maturity wasn’t due to any direction or sense of purpose. He’d matured because of the childhood Madarame had stolen. Under the weight of Madarame’s unwavering expectations, Yusuke had been forced to grow up. Every time one of the other pupils crumbled under the pressure, it weighed a bit heavier on Yusuke’s back. Eventually, Yusuke was the only one left, and he had to grow up or fall apart.

To this day, he still doesn’t fit in with his classmates. He’s still too dedicated to his work, too serious when his colleagues are having fun. Their jokes fall flat no matter how much Yusuke tries to understand, and Yusuke struggles to see even the most basic of social cues. How much is Yusuke himself, and how much is because Madarame raised him this way? Is there even a difference?

The childhood he’s lost can never be reclaimed.

The announcement for Yongen-Jaya shakes Yusuke out of his thoughts. He pushes past the high schoolers to the door and spills out onto the platform. He walks up to street level, and the ache of nostalgia threatens to bowl him over. Yongen-Jaya looks the same as it always has, a hidden corner of Tokyo, untouched by the flow of time.

The days when the Phantom Thieves used to gather at Leblanc are long past. It’s been ages since Yusuke last walked these streets. Most of the former Thieves still live near Tokyo, but they don’t run in the same circles anymore. Keeping in touch with everyone is more effort than it used to be. It’s an effort he’ll put in gladly, for the rest of his life. But it means he can’t simply pop into Leblanc after class because he feels lonely.

But even those fond memories are colored with a lens of resentment. Madarame had expertly crafted that loneliness, that dependency so that Yusuke would feel helpless to ever leave. It had kept Yusuke shackled for so long. Even after Madarame was gone, it kept him in chains. He’s _still_ lonely.

Yusuke considers how he could put these feelings on canvas. How to express nostalgia and resentment in one painting? He could paint Leblanc, colored by the sickening golden sheen of Madarame’s palace. But, no, he’s painted Leblanc before. Madarame’s old shack? Maybe, but Yusuke’s old home was far too recognizable by the general public. It would invite more questions than Yusuke was willing to answer. An abstract piece? Those tended to be Yusuke’s preferred method of expressing inner turmoil. Even the staunchest art critics struggled to glean concrete meaning from a wash of color.

He’s considering what color palette to use for his piece when he turns down the familiar street to Leblanc.

Yusuke abruptly stops. “What is this?”

An eerily familiar living room is arranged in the alley outside Leblanc. An old CRT television rests on a low table, two armchairs sit facing it, as if prepared for someone to turn the corner and claim it as their own. A time-battered bookshelf sits to the right; Yusuke recognizes the blue paint splattered on its corners. He knows that if he runs his hand over the inside edge, he’ll find his own initials carved into the wood.

But most striking of all are the dozen copies of the false _Sayuri_ staring at him.

Goro looks up from where he sits, sprawled inelegantly across one of the chairs. The better of the two, Yusuke notes absently. The other had uneven legs and rocked whenever anyone sat in it. Madarame always claimed the better one for himself.

Goro springs out of his seat. “Good, you’re finally here.” He hands Yusuke a metal bat (stolen from the batting cages). “You’ll want this.”

Reflexively, Yusuke’s fingers curl around the handle. “Where’s Akira?” Distantly, Yusuke sees that Goro wields a matching bat in his opposite hand.

Goro waves over his shoulder toward Leblanc. “Working, but he’s been kind enough to lend us the alley.”

The fact that the alley outside Leblanc is public property and therefore outside of Akira’s purview is irrelevant. Yusuke can’t tear his eyes away from the echo of his past. Madarame’s old bed frame rests against the wall. Madarame had slept on a western mattress when he stayed at the atelier; he insisted it was better for his back. But he’d insisted that Yusuke and the other pupils sleep on futons.

Yusuke had been relieved to leave the atelier, and all its memories behind. But they hit him now with the force of a tidal wave. Nothing in Madarame’s shack had ever truly been his. Everything had to be shared between pupils, and even the sparse pieces of furniture in his room could be taken away at any time. Yusuke had been so pleased when Madarame moved Mochizuki-senpai’s old bookshelf into his room, and Yusuke could finally store his art books somewhere besides the floor. He strove to work harder in exchange.

But Madarame could have bought a hundred bookshelves. Instead, he convinced Yusuke that material possessions were a weakness, that home was something he had to _earn._ Looking at his old life now makes Yusuke _sick._

Yusuke speaks in a daze. “Where did you find all this—”

“Junk?” Goro spits. “We took the liberty of seizing some of Madarame’s old possessions from the state.”

Yusuke stares at the patchwork spread of old furniture displayed before him, and the pieces click together. _“This_ is my settlement?”

The caged fury in Yusuke’s voice resonates in Goro’s heart. “Disgusting, isn’t it?” The corner of Goro’s mouth quirked upward.

Goro watches the muscles strain in Yusuke’s throat. _“Disgusting_ doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“Does it make you angry?”

“Of _course_ it—” The bat hangs heavily in his grasp. “I see.” Yusuke holds the bat out to Goro with a limp wrist, as if he can’t even bear to touch it. “While I appreciate the gesture, I see little point in beating Madarame’s old furniture with a stick.”

Goro meets Yusuke’s gaze with a piercing stare. “You can put on the sophisticated act all you want, but I’ve watched you cleave the fat off a monster’s bones. I _know_ you enjoyed it.”

Yusuke averts his eyes, a stone lodging in his throat. It’s been so long since the Phantom Thieves, since he did anything _remotely_ violent. When he’d torn the mask off his face, his own blood had splattered across the floor of Madarame’s gallery. Goemon had shattered the cage around his heart and turned his enemies to shards of glass. Yusuke had faced down his foster father and _smiled._

No one had ever called him out for taking pleasure in violence. He’d thought no one ever would.

“That was different,” Yusuke insists anyway. “We were fighting for a common goal.”

“And you think if you just bottle up that part of you it will go away? That if you ignore it for long enough one day you’ll stop feeling angry?”

The ache inside Yusuke’s chest only burns brighter. It’s _infuriating_ how easily Goro can read him. He’s kept this ugliness inside for years. He doesn’t even dare show it to _Akira._ It’s too raw, too painful. But Goro simply knows it’s there. Goro is his reflection through the looking glass.

“Let me tell you.” Goro steps closer, crowding into Yusuke’s space. “It _never_ goes away. That anger is part of us for the rest of our lives.”

“So I should break some old furniture because I’m _angry?_ What purpose does that serve?” Yusuke spits into Goro’s face.

Goro gestures at the remnants of Yusuke’s childhood. “Why don’t you look at the mockery he made of your mother’s work and tell me again that it deserves more than complete destruction at your hands?”

Yusuke can’t help himself. His eyes follow the line of Goro’s arm to the _Sayuri,_ resting on a simple easel. The face of a mother he never knew stares back at him, eyes tender and reverent. Yusuke knows that a babe rests in the cradle of her arms, but it’s invisible beneath the fog. His mother drew this _for_ him, _to_ him. She wanted Yusuke, no, the whole _world_ to know how she loved her son. Yusuke was meant to grow up with this, the comfort that he was _loved,_ _wanted,_ and _cherished._

Madarame had stolen that from him. He’d stolen it from Yusuke’s mother, too, before her body was even cold.

Yusuke’s hand tightens around the bat. “It’s _barbaric,”_ he growls.

Goro laughs darkly. “Do you think anger isn’t beautiful?” He breathes against Yusuke’s cheek. “Because you’ve never been more beautiful than when you tried to tear out my beating heart.”

Yusuke’s eyes snap to Goro’s. They flash with sharpened steel before the void of his pupils swallows it whole. Yusuke winds back, preparing to strike. For a second, Goro is certain Yusuke is about to swing at Goro’s head. Goro readies himself, arms coming up defensively.

Yusuke shoulders past him and _swings,_ long arms arcing wide. The bat cracks against the _Sayuri._ The canvas bows inward and the woman’s dress warps, disturbed by a sudden gale. The painting clatters against the bathhouse in a shower of splinters. Yusuke plants his foot squarely on the woman’s face and prepares for another strike.

“That’s _it!”_ Goro cackles.

It’s easy to forget just how much raw _power_ Yusuke hides. He’s thin, wraithlike with long limbs that flow with a dancer’s grace. He holds a brush between the delicate curl of his fingers and stipples in featherlight strokes as he brings his visions to life. Yusuke is careful in everything he does, from the fall of his footsteps to the words on his tongue. Akechi had seen that caution and mistaken it for weakness, had thought it meant Yusuke would be easily broken.

But there’s a difference between control and fragility.

Yusuke strikes the bookshelf with a _crack._ The old wood splits down the middle and groans, collapsing under its own weight. Yusuke hits it again and blows a hole through the frame. He takes a moment, panting, forearms straining beneath his sleeves. Then he rears back and slams the bat down with both hands.

Goro drops into his battle stance, one hand on his bat. He can almost imagine it’s his sword, singing in his hands. He strikes the other end of the bookshelf. The top half gives way under the blow, the splintered wood falling apart.

“Tell me how it feels!” Goro howls, striking again, and again.

Yusuke kicks the battered shelf out of his way. “Like Neo-Expressionism,” he grunts, before shoving his bat through the TV screen.

Goro isn’t about to stop and ask what _that_ means.

Yusuke tears through his old life like a tidal wave. Splinters, glass, and bits of plastic crunch underfoot every time Yusuke moves to get a better swing. He bashes the TV into an unrecognizable ball, Goro helps him knock out the legs of the table, and he beats the armchair until the seat falls through.

Suddenly, Goro is fifteen again, when all that mattered was the rush of anger. Rage had breathed life into a monster and for the first time, he could grasp the thread of fate in his hands. He killed, and bled, and killed some more, knowing that a sheer cliff face waited for him at the end. It didn’t matter because he would take _everyone_ down with him. He had been angry for so long and finally, _finally,_ he could use it.

It wasn’t until he met the Phantom Thieves that he learned to be something _other_ than angry.

Yusuke growls, shoving a hole through the _Sayuri’s_ chest. Yusuke wields his bat like an old sword, returned to his hand after all these years. Yusuke stares down the line of defiled paintings, and his mouth curls into a savage grin. In the flicker of shadow across Yusuke’s face, Goro sees Fox once again.

The Phantom Thieves taught Goro how to let go of his anger. The least he can do is teach Yusuke how to seize his.

“Why are you angry, Fox?” Goro asks, in the same, heady, breathless voice he used to use in the Metaverse.

Yusuke strikes another painting. “Because…!” And another. “He took everything from me!” And another. “My work…!” Another _Sayuri_ crumples beneath Yusuke’s anger, falling to his feet. “My childhood…!” He strikes the same canvas again. “My _mother!”_

Again and again, he slams the bat down on Madarame’s forgery. He drives it into the pavement like if he strikes _hard enough_ the work itself will disappear. The bat thunders against the ground, ringing like a gunshot through the sleepy ward of Yongen-Jaya. Yusuke keeps hitting until red paint stains the end of his bat like blood until his arms burn with exertion and tears cloud the edges of his vision

“Doesn’t it feel great?” Goro gasps. “To ruin something beautiful?”

Yusuke blinks back the tears, and slowly, like the sunrise over the mountain, climbs to his full height. Sweat-slicked bangs cling to his forehead as he stares out over the wreckage of an old man’s vanity. Jagged spires of wood litter the ground, shelves and bed frames irreparably broken. Shards of glass catch the sunlight, glittering like stars. And every soulless forgery of his mother’s face is smeared away until it fades into the fog.

It would make a lovely painting.

Slowly, Yusuke brushes the bangs from his eyes. “I think it’s far more beautiful now than it ever was before.” He turns to Goro with a gentle smile.

Goro watches with hungry eyes. Yusuke glows in the sunlight. A rosy flush blooms over Yusuke’s nose and full lips part around heavy breaths. Yusuke’s shirt hangs off his shoulders, collarbone peeking above. Sweat rolls down the long line of Yusuke’s neck and pools in the divot of his clavicle.

He’s _beautiful._

Goro wants to _ruin_ him.

Goro’s bat clatters as it hits the ground. He stalks towards Yusuke, glass crunching underfoot as he cuts through the wreckage. Goro seeks him like a wolf chasing its meal. Yusuke’s brows just begin to furrow with an unspoken question. But Goro’s hands curl around Yusuke’s jaw, silencing his every thought. Goro _yanks,_ pulling Yusuke into a searing open-mouthed kiss.

Their teeth clash, Yusuke’s incisors scraping Goro’s lip. It stings, and Goro can taste the metallic tang of blood. But Goro never shied away from a bit of pain. Goro presses harder into the split of his lip, painting Yusuke’s face with Goro’s blood.

Yusuke gasps into his mouth. Goro swallows it down like a starving man. Goro’s thoughts are the hum of static, the only thing left is his animal impulse for _more._ Goro licks across Yusuke’s canines, teases the blade-sharp edge with his tongue, and wonders how it would feel if Yusuke bit down. Yusuke tastes like the ocean after a heavy storm, salt and petrichor.

Goro searches and _searches._ He’ll take everything Yusuke has to give and then ask for more. Goro’s lips bruise against Yusuke’s teeth. Yusuke stumbles back, and Goro drives him into the wall of the bathhouse. Goro pants against Yusuke’s lips. Every exhale escapes as fire, burning Yusuke from the inside out.

Yusuke clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing. He fumbles, tentative and awkward. He moves his lips like he’s trying to eat Goro’s face. Goro kind of likes it. But Yusuke’s a quick study, learning to copy what Goro does with his mouth. He’s not as bold or demanding. But he’s precise, Yusuke’s lips moving with the precision Goro’s come to expect of the artist. Slowly, Yusuke curls his arm around Goro’s waist.

Someone clears their throat at Goro’s back.

Goro hears, but he’s far too preoccupied to care. Yusuke pulls him closer, their chests flush. Goro shudders. Goro has dreamt about being enveloped in Yusuke’s warmth. Goro yearns to feel Yusuke’s heartbeat, to let his own beat in time.

“This is a great view but you’re scaring the customers,” Akira says.

Yusuke forcefully shoves Goro back. “Akira, I…!” he gasps through bruised, swollen lips.

Goro looks over his shoulder at Akira with an affronted glare.

Akira just smiles, gentle and understanding. “It’s okay, I’m not upset,” he promises.

Akira pointedly flips the sign on Leblanc’s door to “Closed.”

“But I think the three of us need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goro to yusuke: aren't you tired of being nice? don't you just wanna go apeshit?  
> akira: sir this is an arby's
> 
> trigger warnings: mentions of past abuse, mild violent/gory description if interrogation room scene, goro's intrusive murderous thoughts, anger management via beating the shit out of old furniture, goro's anger kink, sloppy bloody makeouts, goro's no good very bad communication skills, kissing without clearly established consent (all parties are ok with it but its a surprise)
> 
> you can come talk to me on [tumblr](https://aceklaviergavin.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/aceklaviergavin)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is loving yusuke hours in my brain 24/7

Yusuke’s head swims, lips still tingling with the memory of Goro’s kiss. He sits at the booth in Leblanc, Goro perched in his usual spot at the counter. He faces Yusuke’s seat but pointedly refuses to look at Yusuke himself. Ever since they’d crossed the threshold, Goro has refused to meet his eye.

Akira hums in the kitchenette over a pot of curry, seemingly at ease. Yusuke glances at Goro. Goro stares openly at Leblanc’s door, arms and legs crossed as if he’d rather be anywhere but here. For what it’s worth, Goro looks as disheveled as Yusuke feels. Goro’s hair sticks to his forehead, sweat and humidity beginning to curl the ends inward. His face flushes with exertion, and his lips bloom red. Ruby beads cling to his upper lip where Yusuke’s teeth had broken the skin.

Yusuke still tastes Goro’s blood on his tongue.

“Here you are!” Akira chimes, setting a large plate of curry on Yusuke’s table.

Yusuke stares at it numbly. Breaded _katsu_ rests on top of a bed of sauteed vegetables. It’s Yusuke’s favorite, fresh and warm off the stove. The familiar pang of hunger aches in his stomach. But Yusuke’s tongue rests heavy in his mouth. If he tries to take a single bite, he’ll surely choke.

“I don’t understand,” he finally says, looking to Akira.

Aira wipes his hands on his apron. “I promised you food, didn’t I?” He smiles, warmer than the freshly made curry in front of him.

Yusuke’s chest seizes, and for once it’s not hunger. “How can you be so kind to me?”

Akira shoots Goro a pointed look, which Goro summarily ignores. “Goro didn’t do anything I didn’t give him permission to do.”

Yusuke blinks, trying to digest this information. His eyes dart between Akira and Goro, trying to glean anything from their expressions. But as talented as Yusuke is at dissecting art, he’s never been skilled at reading other people. They may as well be expressionless dolls for all the information Yusuke can glean from their faces.

Akira sighs as he works at the strings of his apron. “Ideally we would have discussed this _before_ Goro shoved his tongue down your throat.” Yusuke feels his cheeks burn scarlet. “But here we are.”

Yusuke doesn’t notice that Goro’s face flushes to match.

Akira lays his apron over the booth and slides in across from Yusuke. Despite Akira’s assurance, Yusuke still struggles to meet his eye. Granted, Yusuke struggles with eye contact at the best of times. Shame makes it nearly impossible.

Akira speaks anyway. He knows that Yusuke will listen. “Goro and I both have feelings for you.”

Tentatively, Yusuke looks up to meet Akira’s eye. Akira is a skilled liar. If he chose to hide it, Yusuke would likely never know the truth. But Akira has never lied to Yusuke. Yusuke’s heart thunders in his chest, setting his veins alight. He _trusts_ Akira.

Yusuke looks to Goro, who hasn’t said a word since their kiss. “Is that true?”

Slowly, Goro turns to meet Yusuke’s gaze. Those red eyes burn like the last vestiges of a dying sun. All the armor in Yusuke’s heart yields, beaten back by the force of Goro’s stare.

“Yes,” Goro says curtly. “I have feelings for you.” He tears his eyes away as if he can’t even bear to look at Yusuke’s face.

Yusuke ignores the burn in his chest and turns back. “And you, Akira?”

Akira has the decency to look flustered. “Yeah. I love you, Yusuke.” Akira plays with his hair.

It’s not the first time he’s said it. But even Yusuke knows this time it’s different. A rosy flush crawls up Akira’s neck, as he watches Yusuke from beneath his lashes. There are a hundred emotions in that gaze that Yusuke could never name.

“How long?” Yusuke asks, gripping his seat tight to try and stop the world from spinning.

Akira smiles sheepishly. “A long time.”

Two sets of eyes fall on Goro. Predictably, Goro refuses to meet them. Goro stares blankly out the café door, eyes locked on the wreckage they’d left in the alley. Goro blinks.

“I… don’t know,” Goro spits like the words burn in his mouth.

Everything Yusuke knows about romance comes from art. Eros breathes life into Psyche with a brush of lips, bodies merge beneath a golden shroud, lovers walk beneath an umbrella in the winter snow. Orihime’s love crafts a bridge of stars so she can cross the Milky Way. Yusuke sees no bridge of stars, nor an umbrella to stay the falling snow.

Yusuke is the same person he was before.

Instinctively, Yusuke looks to Akira for guidance. “I… What should I do?”

“That’s up to you.” Akira’s smile is warm but apologetic. “If you feel the same, and you’re willing to put up with the both of us”—Akira’s eyes gleam with mirth—“we’re willing to give this a shot.”

How does Yusuke feel? Sweat sticks to Yusuke’s skin, his face flushed from wielding a bat against the phantoms of his past. He can still feel Goro’s tongue heavy in his mouth. All he feels are the charred out remnants of a body immolated by rage.

“What do you mean by ‘this?’” Yusuke asks, floundering for something to hold onto.

“That depends.” Akira tugs at his hair again. “On how you feel, and what exactly you want out of a relationship.” Akira flushes. “We’d talk about what the three of us want and what we’re comfortable with, then we’d go from there.”

What Yusuke _wants?_ What he’s _comfortable_ with? This morning his only reference for romance had been the bloom of red roses, maple leaves turning brown beneath the autumn sun. Now, he’s suddenly faced with the possibility of a relationship within his grasp. Not just any relationship, but one with two of his oldest friends.

“Nothing has to change,” Akira continues. “If you don’t return our feelings or we don’t want the same things, then we’ll keep it like it is.” Akira reaches across the table and gently grasps Yusuke’s hand. “Being your friend is _more_ than enough.”

His touch burns. Yusuke doesn’t know the first thing about romance. The awkward movement of his lips against Goro’s was a testament to that fact. Yusuke’s only ever imagined loving one person.

Anxiety, confusion, _love._ Yusuke doesn’t even know where to begin with the knot of his emotions. Goro pried open his mouth and breathed love into his veins, so full of passion that it burned everything else away. Yusuke has nothing left to offer.

“I… I don’t… I’m not…” Yusuke fumbles with his words, ash heavy on his tongue.

“It’s okay if you need to take some time,” Akira offers. “Goro and I have dumped a lot on you. It makes sense if you’re overwhelmed.”

Yusuke finds himself nodding before he even registers Akira’s words. “Yes,” he gasps. “Time. I… need some time.”

Already he’s grabbing his bag and scrambling out of the booth. The café is too small, its wall inexorably pressing in. Yusuke needs to be anywhere but here.

Akira smiles, warm and understanding. It hurts to look at. “Let me box up your curry.”

Quickly, Akira grabs a plastic container from under the counter and scoops the curry inside. Yusuke shifts anxiously at the door like he’ll bolt if Akira takes too long. Akira passes the curry into Yusuke’s hands. It’s still warm. Their fingers brush and it sends a jolt of electricity up Yusuke’s aching arms.

“Take all the time you need,” Akira says with a kind smile. “We’ll be here.”

Yusuke nods, bows, and then rushes out the door. Akira watches him go, pressing close to the glass until Yusuke disappears around the corner. Splintered wood and broken glass still litter the ground outside Leblanc. Passersby awkwardly bump shoulders while sidestepping the wreckage.

Akira will deal with it later. “Goro,” he says, voice stern.

There’s no answer. Akira turns on his heel, half expecting Goro’s seat to be empty. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had made a daring escape through the attic window. But Goro’s still in his usual seat, eyes focused on a point above Akira’s shoulder.

Akira sidesteps into Goro’s line of sight. _“Goro.”_

Goro pointedly looks away, turning his gaze to the ceiling. Akira huffs. _Of course,_ Goro wouldn’t make this easy. Akira stalks up to Goro’s seat and leans against the counter, boxing Goro in the cage of his arms. Goro has to lean back to keep from touching Akira, the wood digging painfully into the small of his back.

He still refuses to meet Akira’s gaze.

“When I said you could kiss him I _meant_ you should talk to him first,” Akira scolds.

Goro stares at a peculiar knot in the ceiling. “Maybe you should be clearer next time.”

“You _know_ what I meant.” Akira rolls his eyes. _“And then_ you made me do all the talking.”

“Hmph.” Has that stain always been there? How did Sojiro manage to get a stain on the ceiling?

“You can’t just go silent and start sulking because you’re _embarrassed.”_

Goro finally meets his eyes with a piercing glare. “I _am not_ sulking.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not embarrassed, either!”

“If you’re not embarrassed, then why is your face all red?” Akira taunts.

“Because you piss me off!”

Despite himself, Goro’s hand darts up to cover his cheeks. He used to be able to sit through vapid talk shows with a stone-cold mask, fake anger and sadness when it was required. But now he can’t even stop himself from blushing because his boyfriend called him out.

Akira chuckles to himself, breath puffing against Goro’s cheek. “I’m not mad.” He takes a steadying breath. “But if this is going to work then you can’t just shut down on us.”

“Maybe this just isn’t going to work at all!” Goro snapped, baring his teeth like sharpened knives.

Silence falls over Leblanc in the wake of Goro’s outburst. The only sound is the bustle of Yongen-Jaya beyond its walls. The grocer advertises today’s sale, a dog chases butterflies on its morning walk, and a family of magpies settles in their nest above Leblanc. But inside it’s just Akira and Goro and the silence of everything Goro would never say.

“You already kissed him. You can’t take that back,” Akira says carefully.

Goro _knows_ that. He’s known that ever since he ended up on the wrong side of a bulkhead and realized the only person he had to blame was _himself._ His whole life is full of decisions he wishes he could undo, but no matter how he tries he can’t unknot the tangle of his mistakes as it tightens around his throat. This is just one more thread to weave in.

“I’ve never made a good decision in my life, I’m certainly not about to start,” Goro says bitterly.

Even after all these years, Goro struggles to deal with his emotions. Life was simpler when he could just shove them into a cage and lock up all the ugly parts of himself. Now the bars are broken and Goro’s misplaced the key. Surges of anger overtake him and Goro has to bear through it. Sometimes he fails.

He got swept up in the rush of Yusuke’s rage, in how beautiful he looked colored gold in the midday sun. Everything in Goro’s body _yearned_ to kiss him. So he crashed his lips against Yusuke’s, to hell with the consequences. For all the years Goro spent denying what he wanted, he’s fucking terrible at it now.

Akira sighs. “That’s not true.” Goro doesn’t respond. “You _know_ that’s not true.”

Goro can recognize the destructive spiral of his own thoughts. Every mistake he’s ever made occupies his thoughts in a parade of failures. Even the small ones feel so much larger. A kiss feels like the end of the world.

Akira rests a gentle hand on Goro’s cheek, tender and warm. “You’re here, after everything. Every day you choose to balance the scales a little more.”

It never occurs to Akira that his continued existence is the biggest mistake of all.

In Goro’s opinion, Akira is giving him far too much credit. Goro doesn’t trod the harrowing path to redemption out of altruism or regret. Goro had been so sure he was going to die, long before the engine room. He’d been preparing to die his whole life. Then he woke up on the other side. Goro had looked at himself, powerless, a failure, unable to even _die_ correctly and had thought _“what now?”_

Eventually, he decided that if he was going to live the rest of his life, it would be at Akira’s side. _Akira_ wanted Goro to be a better person, to achieve something resembling redemption, to right all of his past wrongs. So that’s what Goro did. He apologized to Haru and Futaba, he goes to therapy, he tries to be a little bit better every day. He tries to be the person Akira sees in him. If Goro has to do something with his life, it might as well be this.

But they’ve had this argument before, about whether Goro can really take credit for his actions when they’re done in service of someone else. It inevitably devolves into the extent of human selfishness, and if true altruism really exists. It’s not a debate Goro feels like having.

It’s easier to just agree, even if it feels hollow. “I suppose living was a good decision.” At the very least, Akira makes it feel true.

Akira knows when Goro says something he doesn’t mean. It hurts every time. But Goro’s trying. Every time, Akira hopes it edges a little closer to the truth.

It’s a start, and Akira will seize it with both hands. “You can’t sabotage everything good in your life and then blame the world when it goes wrong.”

_Fucking watch me,_ the ghost of Loki hisses. But years of therapy have tempered Goro’s knee-jerk responses. He takes a deep breath and lets the thought float downstream.

“You’re… right,” Goro bites out, as painful as it is. “I’m. Sorry.” His tongue burns around the apology.

Akira knows how hard this is for Goro, and the long road he’s traveled to get here. So much more still lies ahead. It’s still hard. But Akira’s proud that Goro’s here to see it through.

Akira cups Goro’s cheeks in both hands. “You need to talk to us.” He holds Goro’s face in his hands like something to be treasured.

Goro would rather pull out his teeth one by one than _talk_ about his _feelings._

Goro closes his eyes and leans into Akira’s touch. “I’ll. Try,” he rasps.

It’s more than Akira would have gotten at sixteen. Akira tenderly presses a kiss to the center of Goro’s forehead. Goro sighs, slowly winding his arms around Akira’s waist. Akira is a fool to stay after everything Goro’s done and everything he has yet to do. But Goro is grateful that Akira is _his_ fool.

“So…” Without looking, Goro can hear the smirk in Akira’s voice. He _knows_ he’s going to hate whatever comes out of Akira’s mouth. “What was it like kissing Yusuke?”

Goro shoves him away. “I changed my mind, I’m not doing shit for you.”

_“C’mon,_ not even one juicy detail?” Akira just crowds him against the counter again, undeterred. “Is he a good kisser?”

_No._ But telling Akira that wouldn’t be any fun.

Goro smirks devilishly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Akira groans. “You tease.” He lightly skims his hands over Goro’s waist. “I thought you loved me.”

Goro braces his hands on Akira’s chest. “Don’t you _dare,”_ he warns.

Suddenly, Akira’s fingers dig in just beneath Goro’s ribs.

“Oh _fuck, hah, you,”_ Goro gasps, squirming as Akira tickles him. “You”— _snerk_ —“piece of shit!”

“What does Yusuke taste like?” Akira laughs, reaching beneath Goro’s armpits.

“Aren’t you”— _snort_ —“supposed to, _ha,_ be working?”

Akira’s relentless assault pauses, and Goro doesn’t hesitate before kneeing him in the stomach.

_“Oof!”_ Akira steps back and doubles over, giving Goro enough room to hop off the stool. “Mercy!”

“All’s fair in love and war, and this is both.” Goro straightens his rumpled jacket.

Akira doesn’t respond, too busy grabbing his apron from the booth. _“God,_ Sojiro’s gonna _kill_ me,” he whines.

“Unfortunate,” Goro hums, then makes a show of checking his phone. “Well, I have class in an hour so I really should be going.”

Akira fumbles as he ties his apron. “Aren’t you going to clean up the alley?”

A graveyard of broken furniture lies just outside Leblanc’s door. Not only is it an eyesore, but anyone coming out of the bathhouse is liable to prick themselves on broken glass. The least Goro could do is clean up his mess.

Goro meets Akira’s wide, pleading eyes. “No, I don’t think I will.” Goro pivots on his heel.

“Goro!” Akira tries to beat him to the door, but Goro is much better at speedy exits. “At least take the bats back!” he yells at Goro’s back as it disappears around the corner.

* * *

Yusuke paints. He paints, and he paints, and he paints until his wrist aches. Then he paints some more. Vibrant color splashes wildly across his canvas until all the white is hidden behind streaks of red, blue, and black. When one canvas is done, he grabs another. A blue fox baring its teeth, the shadow of a sharp-beaked crow, the crooked smile of a red jester.

His stomach growls, the familiar pangs of hunger wake Yusuke with a start. He holds a brush dipped in inky black against the canvas. Yusuke has to squint to see, and he realizes the studio has grown dark around him. He quickly rinses the brush and sets it aside. He can’t even remember what he was painting, he doubts he’ll be able to finish it properly.

He flips the light switch, the overhead lamp flickers on, bathing the studio in yellow light. Yusuke sits on his stool, in front of the painting he just made. Swaths of blue color the foreground, contrasting with a red horizon. Smears of black separate them, so it’s impossible to even tell where blue ends and red begins. If Yusuke unfocuses his eyes, he can almost see a harbor beneath an angry red sky.

Even Yusuke struggles to discern meaning from it. Is he the turbulent ever-changing ocean, and Akira the unattainable sky, forever kept apart by Goro’s horizon? Or is it simply a mess of confused, haphazard color? Even if Yusuke can’t read them, he feels better now that his anxieties are put to canvas and he can hold his thoughts in his hands.

His mind feels clear for the first time since he left Leblanc, surrounded by a myriad of paintings he can hardly remember. He’s poured all his racing thoughts onto canvas and cleared everything else away. He can finally turn inward and ask himself how he feels.

Years ago, when Yusuke first met Akira, he’d felt something. He had imagined eating udon together and kissing the sauce from Akira’s mouth, visiting the planetarium in Ikebukuro and holding hands beneath the stars. Akira had watched Yusuke claw at the floor of Madarame’s museum until his nails split, then rip his mask off with red-stained fingers. Afterward, Akira had offered his hand. When they touched, Yusuke saw the spark in Akira’s eye, and thought, maybe he felt the same.

But Yusuke fell into a museum of vanity, tore the wool from his eyes, and his life was forever changed. Within a span of weeks, he dragged Madarame’s sins into light, then left the only home he’d ever known. He left a prison of vanity only to end up in another. If he wanted to keep a roof over his head and food in his stomach, he needed to _paint._ It was almost funny. He fought to survive in the Metaverse, only to worry about his survival in reality. There was no time to consider his burgeoning feelings for Akira.

Then Akira met Akechi, and any chance Yusuke had slipped through his grasp.

Yusuke had been alright with that. Back then, even Yusuke could appreciate that Akechi was charming. His features were carefully balanced. In another life, he could have been Yusuke’s muse. Then Sae, the interrogation room, Shido, and everything after. Akira banged his fists against an unwavering bulkhead until bruises bloomed across his palms and tears clung to his lashes like stars. Yusuke had known then that whatever Akira and Akechi shared, he could never come close.

Yusuke spent most of that year hating Akechi. He’d hurt so many of Yusuke’s friends. He made Futaba an orphan, Haru an heiress to a company she didn’t want. Every dark bruise across Akira’s wrists, every fractured bone, or scar was _Akechi’s_ fault. If it wouldn’t ruin their plans, Yusuke would have gladly sunk his teeth into Akechi’s throat.

When Yusuke looked at Akechi, he saw Madarame. Every word he spoke was another lie. He stole people’s dreams and took their lives, all in service of his own success. Madarame was a despicable fiend wearing the skin of an artist, Akechi was a cowardly assassin wearing the skin of a detective.

When Yusuke had the chance to slice through Akechi’s skin with his katana, he took it gladly.

In the deafening silence left by twin gunshots, Yusuke realized with earth-shattering clarity: _he’s not Madarame. He’s me._

When Goro came back to them, Yusuke was simply grateful that he would get the second chance that Yusuke himself had been granted. In the years since, therapy and security have tempered Goro’s sharper edges. Yusuke and Goro have achieved something resembling friendship.

It’s not Yusuke’s place to forgive Goro for his crimes. But he struggles to hold Goro fully responsible when he meets Goro’s eyes and sees so much of himself reflected back. Goro makes Akira happy, he gossips with Ann about the media, he watches Featherman with Futaba. For all the hurt he caused in the past, his presence makes their lives a little bit better now.

Yusuke learned to love Akira from afar, to take pleasure in Akira’s happiness. Akira defied society, god, and fate itself to love Goro. It’s the kind of fate-rending love sonnets are written for. Akira deserves this love, after everything he’s been through.

Yusuke’s love for Akira is a warm, ever-burning star. It lights his way through the darkest night, calls him home whenever he begins to stray. It’s comfortable, familiar, unchanging even after all these years. Yusuke was prepared to love Akira just like this for the rest of his life.

His feelings for Goro are different. Akira is comfort, warm hands kneading his tightened shoulders after a long day at the easel. He offers acceptance, understanding, and a place Yusuke can finally belong. Goro is the thrill of being known. Yusuke looks in a mirror and it’s Goro’s eyes that stare back. Goro sees the disease infecting Yusuke’s soul and tells him that ugliness makes him beautiful.

When Yusuke tore off his mask, he burned his old self away and rose like a phoenix. Akira loves the bird, but Goro makes his home in the ashes.

As long as Yusuke’s known him, Goro has always belonged to Akira first. Even after the hate subsided and they slipped into a tentative friendship, he went home to Akira. Yusuke never questioned his feelings for Goro. He shared parts of himself with Goro that even Akira never got to see. Yusuke dedicated whole sketchbooks to capturing Goro’s features. He never stopped to question why.

Yusuke has so little experience with love and friendship. He doesn’t know where one ends and the other begins. But Yusuke’s mouth still tingles with the feeling of Goro’s lips. He wishes that it had lasted longer, so he could better remember the taste of Goro on his tongue.

His stomach rumbles, louder this time. Ah, right. He can worry about his love life over dinner. Yusuke goes to the kitchen, grabs the katsu curry from Leblanc out of the fridge, and reheats it. He sits, cross-legged on the ground in his empty apartment, the container in his lap as he spoons curry into his mouth. The familiar blend of turmeric, coriander, and cumin spills over his tongue.

Suddenly, he’s sixteen again, sitting in the café after that one night at Leblanc. Boss places a plate of curry in front of him.

“Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t order anything…” Yusuke says carefully, unsure of Sojiro’s intentions.

“You looked like you could use something to eat,” Boss says with a kind smile.

Yusuke has never received anything for free. “I can’t pay you…” he murmurs, ashamed of his own finances.

“Don’t worry about it. You’re the kid’s friend right?”

Yusuke has never had friends before. “Something like that, I suppose.”

“Then eat up. On the house.”

Madarame would tell him to refuse, that it’s beneath him to accept charity, no matter how insistently it’s offered. But Yusuke’s stomach pangs with hunger, even after all the food eaten the night before.

Yusuke bows. “Thank you for your generosity.”

Yusuke takes his first bite of curry. A delicate blend of spices fills his mouth. It’s the laughter that used to ring through the atelier’s halls, a master's gentle guidance, a mother’s smile as she holds a child she’ll never know.

When Yusuke had awoken that morning, one of the first things he’d seen had been Akira. Akira’s face had been unguarded in sleep, mouth slightly parted, eyes unhidden by the mask he wore every day. He’d been the picture of peace, the kind of beauty Yusuke yearned to capture. Part of him wanted to grab his sketchbook and do just that. But another, smaller part of him wanted to keep this just for himself. He’d quietly packed his things, and made his way downstairs.

Yusuke looks at the _Sayuri,_ the _true Sayuri._ He blinks the tears from his eyes. Sojiro’s curry tastes like _home._

Akira’s curry has different notes than Sojiro’s. The cardamon is stronger, hints of nutmeg linger on Yusuke’s tongue. But it makes Yusuke think of home just the same. Older and maybe even a little bit wiser, Yusuke has a clearer picture of what that means.

Home is waking up to Akira’s sleeping face every morning, brown hair burned gold in the morning sunlight, bruising kisses that taste like curry, and leave remnants of ash on his tongue. Home is a blank canvas full of possibility, a cup of coffee warming his cold hands, pale skin peeled back from beneath leather gloves.

Yusuke rubs away the tears, and he thinks he has an answer.

* * *

Goro walks out of his last class of the evening, the familiar pulse of a migraine brewing behind his eye. He used to sit through seven hours of classes, discuss clues with pigs in uniform, then run to a TV station to talk about his personal life, all while wearing a saccharine smile. Now, he can barely sit through a couple of lectures without snapping a pencil in half.

Goro tries not to fantasize about murder. It’s a pointless fixation. Goro’s days as an assassin are over. He has a promise to keep and a life he’s not willing to throw away. But then the part of Goro that never stopped being sixteen and angry thinks that if _one more_ person holds up class with another inane question he’s going to strangle them with his bare hands.

_There’s nothing wrong with asking questions,_ Akira’s voice rings in his head. _You’re just an asshole._

Goro _knows_ he’s an asshole and he’ll wear that title proudly. It doesn’t make his classmates' voices any less grating. At the very least, Goro has kept his head down for one more day. He’s thankful to get out of the stuffy lecture hall, where every breath reeks of a hundred hormonal undergrads.

Fresh air settles the ache behind his eye as Goro steps into the courtyard. Students and faculty cut through on their way to class, a couple shares lunch on one of the benches, a long-limbed boy sits on the edge of the fountain, sketchpad in hand. The normal din of life on campus fills the air. But like the rattle of subway cars and the hum of electricity in Shibuya, this is easier to drown out.

More than anything, Goro just wants to be in his apartment with Akira’s coffee. He wants to sit in a space he knows, with people he trusts, and let the day’s stresses slough off like a snake’s skin. He wants those vile thoughts to float down the river, while he watches them disappear.

Goro instinctively heads for the station. He stops mid-stride, a niggling thought at the back of his mind. He looks at the fountain again. There Yusuke sits, on folded legs atop the stonework, sketchbook in his lap. Goro blinks and rubs his eyes. Yusuke doesn’t move, except to frame the Humanities building with his hands. Definitely Yusuke, then.

What the _hell_ is Yusuke doing here?

It certainly doesn’t take a detective prince to hazard a guess. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Goro had made out with him in an alley. Yusuke likely wanted to catch Goro by himself. Goro’s hackles raise defensively. His mind spins in place, analyzing Yusuke with the same sharpness he analyzed targets in the Metaverse. What did Yusuke hope to gain by cornering Goro like an animal? Did he think Goro weak without Akira to back him up? Did he plan to manipulate Goro away from prying eyes?

Goro takes a deep breath, then lets it go. _It’s just Yusuke. He’s not a threat._

Goro considers walking on to the station. Yusuke is so absorbed in his art he has yet to take notice of Goro. Goro could feign ignorance, pretend that he was so eager to get home he missed Yusuke entirely. But that would only delay the inevitable. Just yesterday, Goro had looked Akira in the eye and promised to be better. Goro has a life with Akira now. He can’t run from his problems forever.

He takes a deep breath and approaches Yusuke. The sun falls across Yusuke’s skin, deepening the shadows of his eyes. Yusuke’s hair shines with uncleansed oil, greasy and unkempt. It sticks up at odd angles, reminiscent of the bird’s nest Akira called “hair.” Frankly, he looks terrible.

Goro stops a foot away, folds his arms over his chest. Yusuke still fails to take notice. “You look like shit,” Goro says sharply.

Yusuke jolts, turning to meet Goro’s gaze. “Goro-kun, I didn’t see you there.” His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with dark circles.

Goro glares down his nose. “Have you slept?” he asks accusingly.

Yusuke closes his sketchbook and tucks it away. “I took a few moments to rest my eyes while I waited.”

That’s a no on sleep, then. Akira would scold Yusuke for neglecting his body. Goro has half a mind to do just that in Akira’s stead. But Goro is certainly the _last_ person to chastise anyone for their sleeping habits. Goro lies awake at night, head full of static, searching for the rhythm of Akira’s heartbeat. He feels Akira’s pulse in his fingers and keeps vigil until sunrise, just to make sure it never fades. It’s different when it’s Yusuke staring up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

Goro lets out a long-held breath. “What are you doing here, Kitagawa-kun?”

Yusuke blinks at him, long lashes fluttering against pale skin. “Is this not what couples do for each other?”

Goro searches Yusuke’s face, trying to find any hint of malice. His instincts tell him this is a trap. One wrong word is all it takes to fashion a noose around his own neck. Goro knows that all too well—fucking pancakes. The only way to disarm it is to know what game Yusuke’s playing. But all Goro sees is the curious tilt of Yusuke’s head, honest eyes meeting his own. Of course, there’s no game. It’s just Yusuke.

“We’re not dating,” Goro says very, very carefully. “And if we were, we’d hardly be a couple.”

Yusuke purses his lips, considering. “I suppose you’re right.” He pushes himself to a stand.

Ugh. Goro scowls. It’s so much harder to be intimidating when Yusuke stands taller than him.

“What does one call a relationship between three people?” Yusuke wonders aloud.

Goro starts walking, gesturing for Yusuke to follow. “This may come as a shock to you, but this isn’t exactly my area of expertise,” he says flatly.

Yusuke falls into step beside Goro. “That makes two of us.”

The cherry blossoms have already bloomed this year. If Goro had better timing, he would have kissed Yusuke a couple of weeks earlier. Drying petals crunch underfoot as Goro leads Yusuke to a small food stand. It sits in the shade of a small maple tree, staffed by a student that looks as tired as Goro feels. Goro grabs a muffin, then shoves it into Yusuke’s hands. If Yusuke hasn’t slept then he likely hasn’t eaten either.

“I could have paid for myself…” Yusuke grumbles, tearing off a piece and shoving it into his mouth anyway.

Goro rolls his eyes and continues on. Yusuke stays silent, content to eat while they walk. Overhead, the last vestiges of cherry blossoms teeter on their branches. One strong wind will be enough to set them free. Browned petals carpet the path as Goro guides them to a more secluded area of campus.

Goro’s heels click against stone steps, leading down into a sunken terrace overlooking a small pond. An overhead trellis provides shade from the sun. It reminds Yusuke of Inokashira; a piece of nature pulled from one of his paintings, unspoiled by Tokyo’s urban sprawl. Goro seats himself on the stone wall at the edge of the path and turns himself so that he looks out over the water. Yusuke joins him, wiping crumbs from his cheek.

A moment of quiet passes, where the only sounds are the chirp of crickets and burble of fish. “I wanted to speak with you,” Yusuke finally says.

Goro gives him a look out of the corner of his eye, brow raised. “Then speak.”

Yusuke leans forward, elbows braced on his knees as his long legs dangle above the pond’s still surface. “I’ve loved Akira since high school.”

White-hot jealousy flares in Goro’s veins. His hands tighten on the wall, nails scraping against stone. _Of course,_ Akira would have stolen Yusuke’s heart, too. Goro’s being ridiculous. He knows that. He’s jealous of his _own boyfriend_ for earning Yusuke’s affection.

“A long time ago,” Yusuke continues. “I thought he might feel the same. But then…” Yusuke’s hands grip his elbows and he peers up at Goro from beneath his bangs. “He met you.”

Goro takes a deep breath and lets it go.

“There was always something special between the both of you. You’re both Wild Cards, two sides of the same coin, pitted against one another by the gods themselves.” Yusuke’s gaze falls, back to the still waters. “How could I possibly hope to compare?”

Goro blinks. When he breathes, it comes out a laugh.

“What are you laughing at?” Yusuke furrows his brows.

Yusuke’s defenses instinctively raise. Too many times, he’s heard laughter just out of earshot, and when he turned to look found them laughing at _him._

Goro shakes his head. “I used to think the same thing,” he chuckles darkly. “Between me and all of you? I never stood a chance.”

Between Goro and the Phantom Thieves, Akira would choose the Phantom Thieves every time.

Yusuke watches Goro with the same eye he uses to create beauty from nothing. “We’re fortunate, then, that Akira will never have to make that choice.” From Yusuke’s lips, it sounds like a promise.

Goro _hates_ promises.

“What I feel for you is different.” Yusuke places a hand to his chest, over his seizing heart. “Akira showed me how to be a better version of myself. But when I’m with you, I think that maybe the person I am is enough.”

Yusuke lowers his gaze to the water's surface, reflecting the open expanse of the sky. “In the years since the Phantom Thieves disbanded, you’ve become… a very dear friend to me. I’ve never been the best with words, yet you understand me before I’ve said anything at all. These days I find that… I can’t imagine my life without you anymore.”

When Goro was eleven, he’d shoved all of his meager possessions into a tattered backpack and instead of walking to school, he caught the first train to Tokyo. He’d been so certain that a better life waited for him there. Goro hid in the bathroom for three hours, then exited the train in Ginza. Goro was so overwhelmed by the crowd that he couldn’t even move. A conductor noticed the child, alone on a school day, and pulled him to the side.

The end result was a call to Goro’s foster parents. They hadn’t even noticed he was gone. Goro was sent on the next train back. When he arrived, his foster parents decided he was too much trouble and sent him on to the next family.

What Goro would have given to be _wanted._

“I’ll be the first to admit,” Yusuke continues. “I know precious little about love. But I… would very much like to kiss you again.”

Yusuke flushes high on his cheekbones, looking at Goro through long lashes. It’s the same look he wore yesterday when every fiber of Goro’s being _screamed_ to kiss him. Goro feels it now, softer. He imagines wrapping his gloved hand around Yusuke’s wrist, leaning in, and brushing his lips to Yusuke’s. Their previous kiss had been all teeth and ash, leaving bruises in its wake. Goro can hardly remember the feel of Yusuke’s lips on his. Would they be soft? Warm? Cold like the ice that flows in Yusuke’s veins?

Goro refuses to give in to that feeling again. “Kitagawa-kun, I’m not a good person,” he sighs. “Nor an easy person to love.”

Every person that’s ever loved Goro, every person that _Goro’s_ ever loved has been irreversibly damaged. Akira still bears scars from his interrogation, physically and mentally. Despite having a clean record, Akira still crosses the street whenever he sees a police officer. He wakes up tangled in their sheets, thoughts muddled, and for a moment he thinks he’s still there, in the middle of that endless interrogation.

Goro’s mother took her own life to escape him.

Yusuke’s mouth pulls into an affronted scowl. “Few things worth doing are easy. Standing up to Madarame certainly wasn’t, nor was leaving my only home behind. Facing down a _god_ wasn’t _easy.”_

Goro’s migraine flares behind his eyes. “There’s a difference between breaking the chains of an unjust system and willingly going to bed with a _viper!”_

Yusuke’s scowl fades into a look of consideration. “Did you know snakes are frequently used as symbols of rebirth?” He straightens his back, no longer folded over. “They’re dangerous, yes, but when the weight of their sins becomes too much to bear, they shed their skin and brave the world with a new face.”

Goro’s teeth grind in the back of his mouth. “You’re missing the point.”

“Be clearer, then,” Yusuke shoots back.

“I can’t simply start anew because I _want to.”_ Goro’s words rasp against sharpened teeth. “The hurt I’ve caused can’t be undone. It’s like you said with Izuhara-san; the people I’ve killed are _never_ coming back.”

Goro needs Yusuke to understand. He can’t damn Madarame then offer Goro his heart. They’re the same sin with two faces. If Yusuke ties himself to Goro, he’d only be locking himself in a new cage. Just like the last one, this cage will drain him until there’s nothing left.

“I used to think that way, too,” Yusuke admits, eyes falling. “But I can’t find it in myself to judge you the way you think you deserve to be judged.”

Yusuke lifts his gaze to the cloudless sky stretching over Tokyo, where once they climbed a tower of bone and fought a god for humanity’s freedom. “A _god_ looked down upon humanity and found the loneliest, angriest boy in Japan then gave him the power to hurt those who’d wronged him.”

Goro shakes his head. It doesn’t _matter._ He should have been stronger, kinder, _better,_ the kind of person that would receive a gift from a god and use it for _good._ Yaldabaoth chose him because he knew Goro was broken.

Yusuke’s lip trembles, his next words nearly a whisper. “What if he’d chosen me?”

He _never_ would have because Yusuke isn’t like Goro.

“Stop trying to absolve me of my crimes!” Goro shouts. “No one _made_ me kill Isshiki or Okumura or Kobayakawa or all the dozens of other people I killed! Not Shido, and certainly not some _god!_ ” Goro spits like the word burns in his mouth. “I did it! Me, no one else!”

Most people would shy away under the full force of Goro’s anger. They’d see sharpened fangs flash inside a twisted snarl, blood-red eyes piercing skin. They’d realize that a monster lurks behind Goro’s pretty smile and back off. But not Yusuke. If anything, Goro’s words only seem to make him angrier.

Steel flashes in Yusuke’s eyes. “Do you think I never did awful things in Madarame’s stead?” Yusuke’s gaze burns against Goro’s own. “That I never hurt people to gain his favor?”

“It’s not the same!”

“Of course not,” Yusuke scoffs. “But is it really that ridiculous for you to believe someone might _empathize_ with you?”

Everything Goro touches is cursed. Once upon a time, he dreamed of being a prince. Cruel words and closed fists stripped him of his noble soul long ago. Everyone used him, then threw him away when they were done. He became a weapon in the hopes that finally, someone might keep him around.

Goro deserved all the ills he’d suffered. Yusuke couldn’t possibly understand.

Goro tears his eyes away, shoring up his defenses. “You can keep your empathy.”

“You don’t get to make that choice!” Yusuke growls, every bit the wild fox. “When I joined the Phantom Thieves, I resolved to choose my own path. That includes who I choose to love and I love _you.”_

Yusuke just doesn’t understand. If he saw the monster behind Goro’s eyes, he would never place his heart in its open maw. Goro needs to _make_ him understand.

Goro sighs. “Kitagawa-kun—”

“My name is _Yusuke.”_ Yusuke stares down his nose at Goro. “You kissed me yet you won’t even use my given name?” His steel-hardened eyes glint in the sun like overfull pools of water.

Not for the first time, Goro realizes he’s made a horrible mistake.

Yusuke barrels onward, a torrent of ice in the depth of winter. “I know you’re trying to push me away,” he huffs. “For all your tricks you’re not as clever as you think you are. I _know_ you better than that.”

It stings, Goro’s ribs cracking open to show an ugly, withered heart. It was easier when no one knew him, when he could hide behind a fake smile. When people hated Akechi it never hurt because Akechi wasn’t _real,_ because every word out of his mouth was a lie. Goro could hide in obscurity, no one could hate Goro if no one _knew_ Goro. Being _known_ is so much more terrifying than any monster Goro’s ever faced.

Goro presses the heels of his palms into the hollows of his eyes.

“I don’t know where you got the impression that I’m weak, or that I need to be protected.” Yusuke sits tall, broad shoulders and long limbs, every bit the warrior he once was. “But I assure you I’ve faced stronger foes than you.”

Goro remembers. He was _there._

Goro feels himself spiraling out of control. It’s the same feeling he had just before Loki whispered in his ear for the first time, and then again before the bulkhead slammed closed. His rotten heart beats a sickening pulse inside his ribcage, setting fire beneath his skin. He watches himself from outside his body and he _knows_ he’s about to do something he’ll regret.

Goro gasps for breath. “Stop.” He doesn’t know whether he’s talking to Yusuke or himself. “I need—”

He needs out of this conversation. He needs to board the first train out of Tokyo and never come back. He needs to fill his pockets with stones and walk into the bay.

For a moment, Yusuke holds onto his anger. But then he sees Goro, folding in on himself, fingers tangled in his hair, panting for breath. His anger disappears, replaced by the all-consuming need to help someone he loves.

Yusuke reaches for Goro, then thinks twice, leaving his hands hovering above Goro’s back. “What do you need?” Yusuke asks urgently.

Goro pitches forward, and for a moment Yusuke thinks he’s going to fall. “I need to—” He needs everything to _stop._ “I need to talk to my therapist.”

Yusuke blinks. “Right now?” He pats his pockets for his phone.

Goro shakes his head. “Before we continue this conversation.”

Goro’s thoughts are scattered, white noise inside his head. He can’t distinguish what he _wants_ from what’s _right_ from what’s _best._ In that confusion, he feels himself falling back on old habits like slipping on an old pair of gloves. Push everyone away. Trust no one but yourself. No one can hurt you if you’re not real.

Goro has come so far since then. He doesn’t _want_ to be that person again.

Yusuke watches Goro with a critical eye. “I see.”

Goro crosses his arms over his chest, grasping his shoulders. “If we continue now, it’s only going to end poorly.”

In some ways, Yusuke understands. The Phantom Thieves had pushed him when he wasn’t ready, and in return, he’d threatened them. Yusuke can give Goro some time.

“Alright,” he agrees. “But we’ll talk after?”

Goro nods. Yusuke seems satisfied with that answer for now and looks out over the water. For a few moments, they sit, the only sounds Goro’s ragged breath and the wind in the trees. Slowly, like waves rolling into shore, Goro’s breathing evens out.

Yusuke gathers his things. “I should be going.” He hides a yawn behind his hand. “I am rather exhausted.” He swings his legs over the fence, feet landing on solid ground.

“Yusuke-kun.” Something odd flutters in Yusuke’s chest. “I _do_ care for you deeply.”

Goro tentatively looks up, meeting Yusuke’s eyes.

When Yusuke smiles, it’s like the sun rising over the mountains. “I know.”

Goro can’t help the grin curling at the corner of his mouth. “Let me walk you home.” Goro straightens up, sliding carefully off the stone.

“That’s really unnecessary,” Yusuke insists.

“I want to.” Goro stands, so close that their shoulders brush.

Warmth spreads out from where they touch. Yusuke’s skin tingles beneath his jacket. He feels a blush spreading up his neck. It’s such a small thing. But to Yusuke, it feels like Goro has offered him the world.

“Alright,” he coughs, flushing high on his cheekbones.

When he walks, Goro falls into step beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: past child abuse/neglect, goro's self-loathing, goro's intrusive violent thoughts, brief suicidal thoughts, brief panic attack
> 
> you can come talk to me on [tumblr](https://aceklaviergavin.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/aceklaviergavin)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to everyone who's made it this far!
> 
> i had so much fun writing this fic, getting to play with symbolism, and themes that really resonate with me. i adore this ship and i'd love to play with their dynamic more one day. i kinda have a half-formed idea for a sequel, but we'll see!
> 
> credit to [@dreamisoup](https://dreamisoup.tumblr.com/post/167830493560/i-gave-yusuke-the-emperors-scar-hc) for the emperor scar headcanon

An echo of a forgotten melody hums in Goro’s ear. He furrows his brow, eyes closed. He knows this song, deep in his soul, but he can’t remember where he heard it. It’s gentle and forlorn, and Goro feels a bone-deep sadness. It resonates with his blood, and his heart beats in time with its rhythm.

Tender fingers card through Goro’s hair, long nails scratching against his scalp. He can't help the contented sigh that escapes his lips. For once, his mind is blissfully empty. He thinks he could sit here forever, just like this.

When he opens his eyes, he sees a drafty studio apartment. The walls are threadbare, drab with dull paint that flecks off on Goro's hands. Golden sunlight streams through the broken window, motes of dust dancing in the air. What little furniture fills the space is tattered, threatening to fall apart at the slightest breeze. Goro lays on his side, a lumpy, yellowed futon digging into his shoulder. But he doesn’t care about the faded paint or the dusty furniture. All he cares about is the person whose fingers card through his hair.

Goro's head rests in their lap, cheek pressed into worn cotton. A red dress turned brown with age spills over their bony knees. When they hum, Goro feels the rumble of the melody in his head.

Goro knows this place, an echo of a life he once lived. It calls him—a siren song of happier days. He knows if he looks up he'll see honey brown hair, eyes gleaming like garnets, and red lipstick smeared at the edges.

Goro desperately grasps her thigh. _"Mom!"_

Carefully, she brushes the hair out of Goro's eyes. She touches him so gently like he's something to be treasured. Her hands are calloused from years of work, but they're warm against his skin.

She hums, and Goro's pulse thrums in time with the melody.

Goro's mother wasn't perfect. Far from it, in fact. Near the end, she had more bad days than good. Days where Goro had to climb up on the counters in search of some stale crackers to eat. Days where her words left scars on Goro's heart. Every time his heart beats, it strains those old wounds.

But Goro prefers to remember her like this, as warm summer days full of sunlight and laughter. She was a soft place to rest his head. She would smooth his hair with hands that would never _ever_ hurt him, hold him close to her heart, and love him like he was the center of her whole world. On her good days, she was _so_ good.

It made the bad days worth the pain, just to see her smile again on the other side.

Everything was easier back then. Happiness laid in his mother’s smile and the world’s cruelty hid far away, beyond the horizon. People called them names, _“bastard,” “whore,” “disgrace.”_ People stared at them on the street, then whispered when they thought Goro couldn’t hear. But none of that mattered because they had each other.

Until they didn’t.

His life is an hourglass. No matter how hard he tries to catch the sand, it slips through his fingers. He’s watched, helpless, as the world spins on, leaving him behind. When he dares to open his clenched fists, the only thing in his grasp is blood. Everything fades. Everyone leaves. His father, his mother, the other foster children, all the adults that invited him into their homes then spit him out, the people that adored Akechi then turned on him just as easily.

Akira and the Phantom Thieves are the only things he’s ever managed to hold onto.

How long until he opens his hands and finds nothing but smoke?

“How am I supposed to hold onto this when I ruin everything I touch?” Goro laughs bitterly.

His mother just hums, stroking his hair the way she used to. He’s lived more of his life without her than he ever did with her. And still, sometimes he aches so strongly to hear her voice again that it threatens to burst from his chest. He wishes he could lay his head on her lap again, just like this.

The ache never goes away. It never gets any easier.

“How can I keep this when I’ve done nothing to deserve it?”

The only thing Goro’s ever managed to keep was blood. His hands are stained with so many people’s blood that he’s lost count. He’s killed people he never even knew. All for the promise of a place to _belong._

He found it, in the end. With the Phantom Thieves. But the path he took is long, twisted, and soaked in blood.

“If I really cared about them I’d leave and never come back.”

The only way Goro ever learned to protect himself as the world sought to tear him down, was by holding a knife to the throbbing pulse of every connection he ever made. If he cut the cord before it ever tied around his heart, no one could hurt him. But when he wasn’t looking, the Phantom Thieves stole their way in and sunk their greedy claws into his chest.

If he ever tried to push them away, the cage of his ribs would burst open.

“It’s only going to hurt.”

Goro finally rolls onto his back, daring to look up at his mother’s face. Sunlight flares behind her head, haloing her in a wash of gold. It hurts to look at. When Goro tries, his eyes water. He can see the tender curl of her lips, stained red. Brown hair lays against her neck, braid pulled tight. And his own red, red eyes look back at him.

“You’re lucky,” he gasps. “You didn’t live to see what a disgrace I am.”

Warm, warm hands cup his cheeks, his face blooming between her palms. Her mouth moves. She doesn’t make a sound. Goro forgot her voice long ago. But her lips curl around familiar words that Goro knows by heart.

_“You were the best thing that ever happened to me, little prince.”_

It’s been so long since he thought about it, but it’s as clear as if she said them herself. Goro remembers reading those words by flashlight, under the blankets in his bed. Goro held her last thoughts penned in careful, black ink on paper crinkled with tears. Whether Goro’s or his mother’s, he doesn’t know.

> _I’m so sorry. I haven’t been a very good Mommy to you. I’m sorry that I’m going to disappoint you one last time. You’re such a brave, kind, smart boy. You deserve so much more than I can give you. I know someone else is going to give you everything that I couldn’t. I hope that one day you’ll understand._
> 
> _I’m sorry that we won’t have more time together. You filled my life with so much joy. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, little prince._

Goro held those words to his chest during his darkest nights. When no one else cared, he held onto the last words of the one person who _did._ She believed so strongly that something better waited for him. Goro held onto that hope until the weight of it crushed him.

Goro understands. Not the way his mother wanted, but he understands just the same. Her self-loathing and hopelessness thrive in his veins, too. He’s watched firsthand as reality distorts before his eyes until the only path forward is escape and the only way out is to burn the earth at his feet.

Society and circumstance dug a grave for his mother. Her mind, worn down by his father and shame, convinced her that Goro would be better off if she laid herself in it. Cut off all ties, save herself the pain of living. Goro did the same thing, once. He stood on the wrong side of a shuttering bulkhead and told himself it was for the best. Push everyone away. Save himself the inevitable sting. Death was less painful than loss.

It was only a strange twist of fate that allowed him a second chance.

She was human and imperfect. She tried to do the right thing, what was best for the son she loved more than life itself. But instead, she took away what he needed most. The whole world stood against her, and she succumbed to her demons. Goro gave into them, too. He gives into them every time he pushes away the people he loves.

Even after all these years, he still hasn’t learned.

When he opens his eyes, he finds himself in darkness. _Where am I?_ he thinks blearily. _Am I dead?_

His body doesn’t feel real. He can’t feel the cotton of his bedsheets or Akira’s warmth at his side through the static under his skin. He needs _out,_ he needs to _breathe._ He rolls heavily out of bed, shirking off the tangle of sheets like a second skin. He can feel the moisture in the air pressing in on him like water, filling his lungs, threatening to drown him.

He stumbles for the door, his shoulder crashing against the frame. He braces his hands on the wall to guide him in the dark. He moves blindly through the dark, memory the only thing guiding him into the kitchen. His hip bumps into the counter. He finds the sink, fingers searching for the spigot in the dark.

He fumbles, then turns on the water. He cups it in his hands then splashes it on his face. The cool water shocks his system, forcibly snapping Goro back into his body. He gasps into his hands, his breath wheezing through his fingers. His bangs stick to his forehead, droplets of water falling from the tip of his nose. Water splashes in the basin of their sink, echoing the sound of the sea.

He’s twenty-one years old. He’s in his and Akira’s apartment in Chiyoda. He’s safe and very much alive. It was just a dream.

It’s been ages since Goro last dreamt about his mother. Memories of her forgotten voice and gentle touch used to plague him every night. It stoked the rage in his heart and reminded him why he fought. In the comfort of his life with Akira, those dreams have faded away, replaced by the security of Akira’s touch. Goro isn’t sure if he should be happy about that.

His mouth is dry, teeth gritty after sleep. He opens the cupboard, hastily grabbing a cup and filling it with water. He drinks it down in long, heaving gulps. If he had a bucket, he’d be tempted to hold himself below the surface. He finishes the water with a gasp, then fills it again.

“Goro?” Akira’s familiar voice breaks the stillness.

He stands in the doorway to the bedroom, blinking blearily in the darkness. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, shirt hanging loosely off one shoulder. He steps forward, bare feet padding against the ground.

“What’s wrong?” he yawns.

The cup lands heavily on the counter, plastic threatening to crack. Goro turns off the tap and braces himself against the sink. He stares down, head hanging low. Water and sweat bead on his brow, rolling down his chin and _drip drip dripping_ on the floor. He doesn’t want Akira to see him like this. His breath comes in heavy pants and he refuses to face Akira.

But Akira never learned to leave well enough alone. “Nightmare?” he guesses.

Goro doesn’t know how to answer that. He’s _had_ nightmares—memories of his mother, lifeless and cold, of Isshiki’s face before she dissolved into a cloud of smoke, of a bullet ripping through his heart. His mother, warm and alive, shouldn’t scare him like this.

“Goro?” Akira brushes his fingers against Goro’s arm.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Goro snarls, lip curling back to show his fangs.

Akira springs back like he’s been burned. Goro can still feel the phantom of his mother, stroking his hair, holding his face between her hands. Akira’s touch is too similar. Akira and his mother are the only ones who ever held him gently, like something worth keeping.

Maybe that’s because whenever someone tries he does _this._

Goro grasps the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white. Akira watches, helpless as every muscle in Goro’s body draws tight. He holds himself like an animal cornered, ready to strike anything that comes too close. This isn’t the first time Akira has seen this, and it almost certainly isn’t the last. But every time it hurts the same.

“What can I do?” Akira asks.

 _Nothing,_ Loki whispers in his ear. Instinct drives Goro to push him away. Don’t show any weakness. It’ll only give them somewhere to aim when they want you to hurt. Goro can handle this himself like he always has, like he will until the day he dies.

But that’s not his life anymore.

He breathes out and watches the ghost of Loki float down the river, out to sea.

“Do I make your life better?” Goro rasps, words ringing in the air like glass ready to shatter.

Akira blinks. “Of course,” he says without a second thought.

Goro squeezes his eyes shut. “How can that possibly be true?” His voice drips with bitterness.

“I love you. You make me happy,” Akira says simply like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

It’s infuriating that something so difficult for Goro is so simple for Akira.

“Not just me,” Akira continues. “All of our friends. You make our lives better by being here.”

Now Goro _knows_ he’s lying.

Goro laughs bitterly. “I killed two of their parents.”

“I’m not talking about that,” Akira says adamantly. “I’m talking about the fact that you’re here _now.”_

Goro whirls around, finally meeting Akira’s eyes through the darkness. “How can you just _ignore_ that?”

Akira sighs. “I don’t know how to explain this to you in a way you’ll understand.”

They’ve had this argument a hundred times. They’ll likely have it a hundred more. No matter how Akira tries, Goro never gets it.

“Isn’t it enough that we care about you?” Akira tries. “That we want to see you happy?”

Goro shakes his head. “I don’t deserve it! I don’t deserve your friendship and certainly not your love!”

It’s not as simple as _wanting_ to change. Goro can’t just accept love without a price. Too many times he’s had it ripped out from beneath his feet.

Akira twirls his hair around his finger, thinking. For a moment, the only sounds are Goro’s heavy breaths and the cicadas bleeding in through the window.

“I stopped caring about what people ‘deserve’ when I got arrested for an assault that never happened,” Akira says suddenly.

It’s been so long since anyone looked at Akira with suspicion or whispered about him behind their hands. Now, he’s the picture of an upstanding young man, charming and intelligent, no one would think that he’d ever been anything but perfect. It’s easy to forget that once people branded him a delinquent, worth less than the dirt under his heel.

“Maybe you _don’t_ deserve it.” Hearing those words leave Akira’s mouth burns worse than any bullet ever could. “Frankly, I don’t care. I’m going to love you whether you deserve it or not.”

Even in the darkness, those overcast gray eyes shine with the threat of far off lightning. Goro squeezes his eyes shut, unable to weather the coming storm.

“So what? I get to stay free because you _love_ me? Is your justice that weak?”

Goro is taunting him, attacking Akira’s ideals to draw him into a fight. Then Goro can lash out, and that’s easier than honesty. Akira knows better now than to take the bait.

“Goro,” Akira scolds gently.

Goro breathes out through his nose. “How can you accept that?” he tries again.

“Nothing can erase what you’ve done, or bring back the people we’ve lost,” Akira says plainly.

Goro knows it’s true, yet it still stings every time.

“Letting you rot in a jail cell for the rest of your life won’t bring back Futaba’s mother or Haru’s father. You can do more to right those wrongs out here than you ever would in prison. All of us agreed, even Sae. The system we have wasn’t built to handle the things you went through.” Akira sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Maybe it’s selfish but… no one ever gave you a chance. Not Shido, or your foster parents, or a literal fucking _god,”_ Akira spits, words so full of venom it stings Goro’s skin.

And suddenly he softens, a rainbow after a storm. “That’s all we wanted.” He tentatively takes Goro’s hand. “To give you a chance.”

Akira’s touch burns like the light of a dying star. Bright and ephemeral. Goro’s going to hold onto it with everything he has. Goro falls into Akira’s embrace. Akira stumbles back under Goro's weight, arm wrapping tightly around Goro’s waist.

Goro burrows his face into the hollow of Akira’s throat. “Out of everyone why was _I_ given a second chance?”

Why did Goro, in all his flaws, wake up after a bullet tore through his chest when his mother lay cold? Why did he get to live out the rest of his days with the people he loves?

Akira holds him close, his heart beating against the knotted scar on Goro’s chest. “We don’t always get what we deserve.” He presses his lips to the shell of Goro’s ear. “The best we can do is keep living anyway, and try to leave the world better than we found it.”

Goro laughs wetly into Akira’s neck. “I spent most of my life making it worse.”

Akira presses his face into Goro’s hair. “And maybe you’ll never fully balance the scales,” he murmurs. “But you can try. We _want_ to try with you.”

Every day he struggles to believe it. But everywhere Goro looks, he finds people that care, people that despite all odds and everything Goro’s done… want him around. Every day Goro wakes up to a life full of love that he’s done nothing to deserve.

“No matter how much you think you deserve it, or how scared you are of being left behind, pushing us away does nothing to make up for what you’ve done. All it does is hurt.”

Goro’s hands fist in Akira’s shirt, molding their bodies together. Maybe if he holds tight enough, he can remember this the next time his thoughts betray him. Or maybe he’ll just have to trust that Akira will be there.

He doesn’t want his old life or his mother’s life. He wants _this_ life, the one with Akira and his friends and, god willing, Yusuke. He’ll hold onto it with claws like daggers before he lets it slip away again.

“Okay,” Goro breathes against Akira’s neck. “Okay.”

* * *

It’s an open secret among the Phantom Thieves that every Wednesday evening, Goro spends an hour in therapy. Goro used to avoid the subject and lie about why he couldn’t go out for coffee. He’s more upfront about it now, after some of the others opened up about their own experiences in counseling. But he still doesn’t talk about it and the others know not to pry. It’s enough to know that he’s looking after himself.

They’re not subtle, though. Often Goro walks out of his session with a string of heart emojis from Ann or a link to a funny bird video from Futaba. It’s comforting in a way he still struggles to admit. Being cared for burns like a brand against his skin. But it’s the sweetest pain.

Today, Yusuke sits on the couch in Goro’s apartment at Goro’s request. Akira hums, brewing coffee with Morgana draped over his shoulders. Akira wears a long pair of sweatpants and a well-worn shirt hangs off his shoulders, dotted with holes from Morgana’s claws. Yusuke feels a bit overdressed in his usual sweater and jeans, though his fingers are stained red from the day’s work. He came straight from school and didn’t think to shower.

Yusuke’s fingers itch to sketch Akira, twirling and spinning around the kitchen in a one-person waltz. But for once, Yusuke’s body thrums with nervous energy. Normally, he can funnel that anxiety into haphazard sketches or half-formed doodles in the margins of his notebook. But his whole chest is full of static, vibrating down the length of his arm. He’s not even sure he can hold a pen.

Yusuke folds his hands in his lap and rocks in his seat. If Akira notices Yusuke’s nervousness, he doesn’t say anything. He sets a plastic cup on the coffee table in front of Yusuke. Morgana takes the opportunity to hop from Akira’s shoulders onto the couch.

“Here you are, sir,” Akira says, falling into a deep bow.

As Akira sits beside Yusuke with a matching cup, Yusuke eyes his curiously. It’s orange with blue lettering, proudly displaying the logo for UTokyo. Yusuke doesn’t know much about coffee, but he’s certainly never had it in a plastic cup before.

“A rather peculiar vessel for coffee.” Yusuke holds it up, observing the shadows cast by the light. “Though, I admit, I’m rather fond of Todai’s logo.”

Akira rubs the back of his neck. “Goro wants to show some school spirit, you know?”

Morgana shakes his head. “They’re too cheap to buy real mugs.”

“Hey!” Akira swats at Morgana playfully. “We’re broke college students!”

“You can afford that fancy coffee siphon but not a real mug?” Morgana scowls.

“You don’t even drink coffee!”

“It’s the principle!” Morgana yells, fur standing up. “What kind of Phantom Thief drinks coffee out of a sippy cup?”

Yusuke takes the chance to sip his coffee. He’ll admit, the plastic feels strange in his mouth when he’s used to drinking from Leblanc’s well-loved ceramic mugs. There’s history in Leblanc, in its worn booths and tarnished silverware. Every aspect of the café overflows with love and speaks of a wounded man who gave a group of delinquents a place to belong.

There’s history here, too, in cheap plastic and paper plates. It’s the story of two broken people trying to carve out a place for themselves in an uncaring world. When the coffee spills over his tongue, the taste is the same, smoked wood and lemongrass.

Yusuke sets it down, throat strangely tight. “It’s lovely as always, Akira.”

“See, _he_ likes it,” Akira says to Morgana.

“Ugh, I can’t believe I’m the only one with any class,” Morgana huffs, before jumping off the table.

Yusuke watches him leave with furrowed brows. Morgana trots across the apartment, then ducks into the bedroom.

“Don’t worry about him,” Akira laughs, resting his cheek in his hand. “He’s been spending too much time with Goro.”

Yusuke’s heart seizes. “I see.” He takes another sip of coffee.

“Have you seen Goro’s new bag? He insists it’s because he can’t fit all his textbooks in a briefcase but _I_ think he just wants to take Mona to class with him.” Akira can’t help the smile that lights up his face, softening his eyes with sunlight.

Yusuke wants that instead of the static filling his veins and bleeding out of his fingers. The spike of jealousy through Yusuke’s heart is entirely new and completely unwelcome. Akira makes love look like the simplest thing in the world when in Yusuke’s experience, it’s been anything but.

“Yusuke?” Akira calls gently. “Everything okay?”

Ah. Yusuke was never the best at hiding his emotions. “Forgive me. I’m simply nervous.”

Akira’s smile fades into one of understanding. “Yeah, I get that.” He leans close with a knowing smirk. “But I know for a fact that he wants this to work out as much as we do.”

If all three of them want this to work then why on earth is it so difficult?

Yusuke shakes his head with a sigh. “I can say without a doubt that Itsumi Goro is the most frustrating person I’ve ever met.”

Akira bursts into laughter. He sets his cup heavily on the table, a hand pressed over his heart. Yusuke isn’t sure what response he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. Still, Akira’s laughter is a beautiful sound.

“Sorry, sorry,” Akira wheezes, wiping his eyes. “But you sound exactly like me.”

Yusuke remembers watching Akira and Akechi circle around each other, dual stars in perpetual orbit. Akira smirked at every double-edged barb Akechi shot at him. Akechi’s eyes flared every time Akira dared to contradict him. Yusuke never understood how rivalry could breed desire. Maybe he understands a little better now.

“I can’t believe this,” Yusuke deadpans. “When I asked you to show me true beauty, I never meant like this.”

“Was watching me and Goro this annoying?” Akira laughs behind his hand.

 _“Worse.”_ Yusuke scowls. “I’m not exactly attuned to people’s emotions and even _I_ cringed watching you two flirt.”

“I can’t believe you all didn’t just tie me up in the attic to save me from myself.”

“We care about you deeply, even if your decision making skills leave a lot to be desired.”

Akira clutches at his chest. _“Oof,_ that one hurts.” Above his smile, Akira’s cheeks flush with color. “It might be a little late, but I’m sorry you had to see that mess.”

Yusuke chuckles. “Accepted, though I suppose I’m in no place to judge your taste in partners.”

Akira’s sunlit smile dims into something more tender, proud even. “He’s changed a lot since back then.”

Yusuke nods. “Still insufferable, though.”

Akira barks out a laugh. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he says fondly.

Akira shoots him a knowing smile. Yusuke’s heart overflows and he can’t help but smile back. Yusuke spent so long ashamed of his feelings, first the familial love he still holds for Madarame, then the desire in his heart for Akira. It’s strange to talk about his feelings so readily, to share them with someone else. For the first time, love brings joy instead of pain.

Yusuke blushes and his eyes fall into the depths of his coffee. He wants this joy every day. He wants to find a place where love doesn’t have to hurt.

“How did you get from _this”_ —Yusuke gestures at himself—“to where you are now?”

“With Goro?” Akira purses his lips, watching Yusuke with those piercing gray eyes.

Akira drums his fingers on the side of his cup, deep in thought. Akira takes his time, as he often does, searching for the right words. When Akira fell in love with Goro, they were both bitter teens, brimming with zeal, and indignant fury. They found common ground in justice and the will to break their chains.

The world has changed since then. They’ve all changed with it. The Phantom Thieves are gone. They still nurture their rebel’s souls, but they find that rebellion in small ways. Akira strives to help people like him that have been cast out by society. Yusuke paints to light that rebellious spark in a sleeping soul. And Goro? Goro chooses to live.

What does Yusuke need to hear? What would have helped Akira when Akira stood in his shoes?

“Time,” Akira finally says. “Patience. A lot, and I mean a _lot_ of therapy.”

Yusuke huffs. “Well, we have one of those.”

“Then you’re already in a better position than when I started!” Akira teases, nudging Yusuke’s foot with his own.

Yusuke sighs heavily. “Whenever I think I understand the rules, he changes the game.”

So much of Yusuke’s life is spent following rules that make little sense. Growing up under Madarame, he never understood how to connect with his peers. Madarame kept him isolated, even in a house full of students. By the time Yusuke realized he was an outcast, it was too late for him to learn. He had to memorize rules that came so naturally to everyone else: laugh at jokes even if he doesn’t get them, speak when spoken to, be passionate but not overbearing.

Goro refuses to follow any of the rules Yusuke’s learned.

“He kisses me without any warning and then when I return his affections he pushes me away.” Yusuke crosses his arms over his chest. “He doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“Yeah, he can be a handful.” Akira grimaces. “He has a hard time opening up to people. You know the story and all that. It’s not an excuse, but it’s something he struggles with, especially when he’s stressed. He’s working on it but I know it sucks.”

Yusuke nods in agreement. It _hurts._ He opened up to Goro, bared his tender heart for the first time in years, and Goro turned away. It rips open all of Yusuke’s old scars. As a child, Yusuke desperately sought Madarame’s approval, so much that he stabbed the other pupils in the back. For a moment, Madarame would smile. It was the closest Yusuke ever got to love.

Time and time again, Yusuke gives his heart to people that don’t want it. First Madarame, then Akira, and now Goro. No matter Goro’s reasoning, it burns in Yusuke’s chest like an open wound. Goro insisted he kept Yusuke at arms’ length for his own good, but how could this hurt _possibly_ be good?

“I’ll tell you something that I learned after a long time with Goro.” Akira leans in, a child sharing a secret. “He does a lot of the things he does because he’s afraid of getting hurt.”

It makes sense. It’s a fear that lives in Yusuke, too. Every time someone compliments his work, he wonders how much they know. Whenever he tries to network with dealers and gallery owners, he wonders how many of them knew Madarame. How many of them blacklisted another of Madarame’s former pupils without asking why? Which of them knew what he did and turned a blind eye? When they look at Yusuke, do they simply see another mark?

After everything Goro’s been through, anyone would be afraid of loss. But Yusuke struggles to wrap his head around it. Goro is so unflappable. He wore a mask of strength even as he lay weak and defeated on the floor of a sinking ship. It’s strange to think of him as human, someone with fears and insecurities.

Yusuke shakes his head. “You make it seem so easy.”

“Do I?” There’s a bitter lilt to Akira’s smile. “Sometimes it is. Sometimes loving Goro is as easy as breathing.”

Akira’s eyes fall to his hands, splayed against his knees. “But not always. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes he falls back into old patterns or I shoulder too much on my own. No matter how much I love him I can’t always be the person he needs.” Akira scowls as the words leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

Akira always tries to be the person everyone needs. He tries to shoulder everyone’s burdens without sharing any of his own. But even he can’t be perfect all the time. It hurts to admit, but sometimes what Goro needs is something Akira can’t give. Sometimes Goro doesn’t need anything at all and he lashes out to cause pain. All Akira can do is weather the storm.

“How do you watch someone you love hurt?” Yusuke asks, voice strained. “How can you sit with that helplessness?”

“Because I’m selfish.”

Yusuke tilts his head with a furrowed brow. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t just want him when it’s easy. Good days, bad days, in between; I want _all_ of it.” Akira’s face blooms into a tender smile. “I _chose_ a life with him. I wake up everyday and I choose him all over again.”

Yusuke _yearns_ for that kind of love. All his life, love has been dependent on his worth as an artist. He wants to feel safe even when his inspiration stalls, to feel worthy even without a brush in his hand. He wants to be seen for all that he is and chosen anyway. He wants someone to see the beauty in the ugliness inside him.

“And…” Yusuke bites nervously at his lip. “Do you really want all of _me?”_

“Oh, Yusuke,” Akira laughs and it’s the sweetest sound Yusuke’s ever heard. Akira reaches over and gently wraps Yusuke’s hand in his. “You have _no_ idea.”

He doesn’t. The only place Yusuke ever belonged was with the Phantom Thieves. They’re gone now and while their bonds still remain, the others have slowly begun to move on. Yusuke’s ambitions are the same now as they were before. Even his feelings for Akira have held strong.

Yusuke lets Akira hold his hand and feels the warmth of their palms pressed together. “I’ve… loved you for a long time.”

Akira’s smile dims. “I know.”

“You knew?” Yusuke asks weakly.

“I had a feeling.” Akira tentatively meets Yusuke’s eyes from beneath his lashes. “I liked you, too, back then. That never changed.”

Akira doesn’t need to explain what happened next. That was when Goro came into their lives. No matter how Akira felt about Yusuke, he had been smitten with Goro from the start.

Akira gently squeezes Yusuke’s hand. “I’m sorry that it took us this long to get here.”

Yusuke thinks. They were different people back then. Scarred with bitterness as they each tried to find their place in the world. Back then, Yusuke would never have let Goro into his heart. If Goro had offered his, Yusuke would have torn it in two.

The road was long, but Yusuke doesn’t think they could have found this any other way. “It’s alright.” Yusuke squeezes back and takes a moment to thread his fingers with Akira’s. “As much as I cared for you, I wasn’t ready back then. The scars that Madarame left were too fresh. I fear that if I’d tried to be your partner I would have simply fallen into my old patterns.”

Akira’s fingers feel odd between his own. They’re shorter, scars from cooking laid over his knuckles. Yusuke remembers the bruises blooming from Akira’s wrists after the interrogation room. If he pushed back Akira’s sleeve, would he find scars there, too?

“I needed… I needed some time to find who _I_ am.” Akira’s hand fits against his like a piece he didn’t know he was missing. “But I’m ready now.”

Akira’s eyes shine with a tenderness Yusuke’s never known. “Then I’m looking forward to the rest of my life with you.”

The sound of the doorknob turning cuts off any reply Yusuke might have had. He and Akira both turn to the entrance, where the door swings open to reveal a haggard Itsumi Goro. Red rims his bloodshot eyes, making his irises appear more brown. Goro’s normally supple skin is blotchy and gaunt. His usual double-breasted jacket hangs oddly off his shoulders, empty space filling the inside.

Goro looks at Yusuke, then Akira, eyes briefly darting to their clasped hands. “Let me wash my face,” he croaks.

Goro unceremoniously dumps his bag on the floor, toes off his shoes, and quickly darts into the bathroom. The door slams behind him and a moment later, they hear the sound of running water. Akira shakes his head fondly then gets up. He carefully places Goro’s shoes in the rack by the door, then hangs Goro’s bag off one of the kitchen chairs. Unsure what to do with his hands, Yusuke nervously finishes his coffee.

Akira busies himself cleaning the grounds out of the coffee maker. There’s enough coffee left for one cup, presumably for Goro. Yusuke can only sit, listen to the fall of water behind the door, and wait, feeling like an outsider in someone else’s home.

Minutes pass. Akira finishes cleaning out the coffee grounds and begins wiping down the counter. He wears a calm mask, but for the first time, Yusuke wonders if he’s nervous, too. Yusuke already finished his coffee and instead he reads the text on his borrowed cup for the third time, staring much harder at UTokyo’s logo than he has any reason to.

The water stops. Yusuke and Akira both turn to the door. A second passes before Goro steps through. He stands before them, hands bare as they clasp in front of him. Somehow the flash of skin is what strikes Yusuke the most. Goro is _trying._

He looks marginally better with a clean face. The redness of his eyes fades into a dull glow, the shadows of his cheeks brightening. He’s still a far cry from Akechi without makeup to hide his flaws. It’s the most vulnerable that Yusuke’s ever seen him.

Only a handful of people have ever seen Goro like this. The artist in Yusuke itches to capture him in this fleeting moment before the mask slips back into place. But even Yusuke knows that would be asking too much.

Goro stands in front of Yusuke and Akira, wringing his bare hands, looking like a man facing down a firing squad. Akira stands by the side of the couch, facing Goro head on. Yusuke feels awkward as the only one sitting and pushes himself to stand. Goro’s eyes dart between them, for all purposes an animal cornered.

“Do you need a minute?” Akira asks gently.

Goro locks eyes with Akira. For a moment, it seems he might take the temporary escape. But then resolve ripples through his body as he steels himself. Yusuke can physically see as Goro bolsters his defenses, decision made.

“No. I’m ready,” Goro insists.

Akira nods and gestures for Goro to continue. Slowly, Goro reaches inside his jacket. It echoes something far more unpleasant, when Goro played a puppet dancing to Shido’s tune. But Goro pulls out a modest stack of note cards. There’s no gun in sight. Completely harmless.

His eyes flicker defensively between Akira and Yusuke, daring them to comment. When nothing comes, he takes a deep breath to steady his shaking hands.

“Don’t interrupt me,” he says sharply. Then his eyes fall to the cards in his hands.

“Yusuke,” Goro reads, voice betraying none of his fears. “I… apologize. For kissing you without warning, then again for being unprepared to accept your feelings.”

He flips to the next card. “Akira. I apologize for my failure to communicate with you properly and forcing you to talk to Yusuke alone.”

Goro watches his own mouth move from behind the TV screen. The roar of static drowns out his voice. His empty body soldiers on, reading the words penned in pristine, black ink. His voice has an affected, mechanical edge to it. Akira covers his mouth with one hand, but Yusuke can see the smile threatening to pull at the corner of his mouth.

“It was impulsive and unjust of me to force that on both of you, then refuse to deal with the aftermath.” Goro holds the cards in front of him like a physical shield.

The cards in his hands are immaculate, each pen stroke clear and precise. But a dozen rough drafts lie crumpled at the bottom of his bag, words haphazardly crossed out and replaced, proofread by his therapist. The words are Goro’s but sanitized, stripped of the barbs he would doubtlessly throw in if he didn’t have the script in his hands.

They need to be perfect. He needs to get this right.

“I” ~~love~~ “care about both of you deeply. I” ~~need~~ “want both of you for the rest of my life, whatever that means. I” ~~can’t~~ “don't want to lose either of you.”

The cards tremble in Goro’s hands, words swimming before his eyes.

“But I” ~~know~~ “worry that I’m going to make mistakes. I” ~~know~~ “fear I’m going to hurt you” ~~like I have so many times before.~~ “I don’t” ~~deserve either of you~~ “feel deserving of the kindness you’ve shown me and I” ~~live in fear of the day you realize that~~ “fear I’ll lose you” ~~and end up alone again.~~

“I” ~~would rather die than~~ “don't want to lose you. But if I stay, I” ~~know~~ “fear the only possible outcome is failure.” ~~But when my mother killed herself, the only person she hurt was me.~~ “I realize that by pushing you away I’m only hurting you further.” ~~I don’t want to make her mistakes. I don’t want to make my mistakes again.~~

“I want…” Goro’s voice breaks through the veil. “I want. To be. Better.”

For the first time in his life, Goro wants it for himself. Not because Akira will be disappointed if he skips a session, or because Sae will call him if he ditches class, but because Goro wants to stop this cycle of hurting the people he loves. He needs to start with himself. When new skin forms over open wounds and his withered heart beats again, maybe the world will finally start to heal.

Goro tucks the cards back into his jacket with shaking hands, still refusing to meet Akira’s or Yusuke’s eyes. A tense silence fills the apartment, where Goro’s words, and all the things he didn’t say hang in the air. Goro stands, hands tightly clasped, steeled for the blow he knows is coming.

Akira is the one to break the silence. “You’re not the only one afraid of making mistakes.” Goro’s eyes flash to him, cautious and wild. “We’re all human. We all mess up.”

Yusuke nods furtively. “I don’t know anything about relationships. I’ve never been with anyone before. I’m… likely going to make many errors.” He can’t help the flush spreading on his cheeks. “But if you’ll still have me, I’m willing to learn.”

Akira shoots Yusuke a tender smile.

“Of course,” Goro breathes, like it was never a question at all.

“And we’ll learn with you, too, Goro,” Akira says gently. “None of us are perfect. You’re not the only one who’s scared.”

Goro wrings his hands and meets Akira’s gaze. In his eyes a deep scarlet sun sets over a field of spider lilies. They burn with a bitter longing far older than Goro’s years. His fingers twitch, yearning to reach out and take Akira’s hand.

“I _want_ to believe you.” Goro exhales a shuddering breath. “But I—”

Akira takes a tentative step forward. “I know.” Slowly, he folds Goro’s hand into his own. “All three of us have things we need to work on. We’re still growing. We’d like to grow with you.”

Goro’s eyes flicker to Yusuke, a nascent hope buried behind his armor.

“I, too, wish to grow into the person you need me to be,” Yusuke speaks through the heartbeat in his throat. “There's no guarantee that it will be easy, or that it will never hurt. But I’m willing to face it, if it means I can have you both.” He steps forward.

Akira and Yusuke pour their love into Goro’s aching, rotten heart. It overflows, so withered that it can’t possibly contain the depth of love offered to him. But love isn’t finite. It simply flows, and flows, and flows like an unending river, filling every forgotten crevice of Goro’s soul.

“I’ve been hurt before, and I survived.” Yusuke slowly pushes his bangs back to reveal an old, silver-threaded scar cutting across his left brow.

Goro can’t stop himself. He reaches up with his free hand and brushes his fingertips against the old wound. The cut is long healed, but sparks light under Goro’s touch. Belatedly, he realizes it’s the first time he’s touched Yusuke with bare hands. His skin is warmer than Goro had imagined, not at all like the shards of ice that once pierced Goro’s skin.

 _I’ll kill him,_ Goro thinks. _I’ll kill anyone who hurt you._

Yusuke presses his cheek into Goro’s palm and that urge drifts away. The warmth of Yusuke’s skin and the thunder of Goro’s waking heart drown out everything else. When Yusuke speaks, his lips move against Goro’s wrist.

“You’ve been hurt, too.” Yusuke lays his hand on the star bursting over Goro’s heart. “And you survived.”

His heart bursts open like a rose in bloom. The bullet rips through his chest all over again. But instead of dying, cold and alone on the engine room floor, he comes alive in the arms of someone who chooses to love him against the odds.

Goro tears his hand from Akira’s grasp and fists it in the back of Yusuke’s shirt. “You _fool.”_ Goro ducks his head into Yusuke’s chest, gasping. “You complete and utter _fool.”_

Slowly, Yusuke’s arm wraps around Goro’s waist, his palm pressed to the small of Goro’s back. He envelops Goro so easily, like Goro was made to fit in his arms. Goro could lose himself in the warmth of Yusuke’s embrace. Yusuke’s heart beats against Goro’s cheek, waves crashing against the shore. Goro wonders if his own heart beats in time. He’s been searching for this security his whole life.

Yusuke pulls back, just enough to look Goro in the eye. Goro tilts his head up to meet Yusuke’s gaze. The hand placed over Goro’s heart trails up, fire sparking in Goro’s veins. Bare skin caresses Goro’s jaw, Yusuke’s fingertips resting against the flutter of Goro’s pulse. Goro gasps. Akira’s the only one who’s ever touched him like this.

Yusuke’s thumb brushes Goro’s bottom lip, Goro’s breath warm on his skin. “Can I kiss you?” Yusuke asks.

Instinctively, Goro looks to Akira, a solid presence at his side. Akira smiles slyly and flashes a thumbs up. Goro doesn’t even have time to roll his eyes before Yusuke captures his mouth.

There’s no clash of teeth or blood smeared on pale skin, just the gentle press of warm lips. Yusuke’s inexperience shows in his stilted movements. In his eagerness, his nose jabs uncomfortably into Goro’s cheekbone. But it doesn’t hurt. Goro laughs quietly into Yusuke’s mouth, warmth blooming in his chest. Goro fits his hands into the curve of Yusuke’s jaw, gently guiding him.

Yusuke’s eager to learn, lips moving steadily against Goro’s. He kisses differently from Akira. Even when they were younger, Akira had never been afraid to take what he wanted, what _belonged_ to him. He wasn’t afraid to push Goro until he bared his fangs. He fitted his lips messily against Goro’s, kissing the corner of his mouth or the bow of his lips. Every kiss stole the breath from Goro’s lungs as surely as it stole his heart.

Yusuke is tender, precise. Every kiss lands perfectly on the center of Goro’s mouth. He cups Goro’s face in his hands the way one would hold a work of art. His lips move, a paintbrush against the canvas of Goro’s skin, reverence and love held in every stroke.

Yusuke’s tongue curls over the sharp edge of Goro’s teeth. Goro melts into Yusuke’s chest. This time, Yusuke doesn’t taste of sweat, ash, or blood-soaked iron. He tastes like smoked wood and lemongrass.

Goro pulls back for air, panting against Yusuke’s cheek. Yusuke pouts kiss-bitten lips blooming pink. Goro feels the flush on his face, feels the swell of his own spit slick lips. He can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of him.

Akira fits his hand between them, finding the crook of Yusuke’s neck. “Hey, handsome,” he croons.

This time, Goro haughtily rolls his eyes as Akira pulls Yusuke into another kiss. It’s different, watching them kiss from this perspective. Goro knows how each of them feel against his lips. Now, he can see it from the outside in.

Akira presses hungrily into Yusuke’s mouth, lips sliding into place. It’s wet and messy the way Goro loves. Yusuke is still tentative in his inexperience, unsure how to meet Akira’s enthusiasm. One of Yusuke’s hands slides from Goro’s face to Akira’s shoulder. Selfishly, Goro captures the other and presses a kiss to Yusuke’s palm.

A full body shudder runs up Yusuke’s arm. Goro’s heart swells against his ribs. _He_ did that. Even as Yusuke’s tongue ventures into Akira’s mouth, Goro still holds sway. He’s still here, he isn’t forgotten.

Yusuke’s tongue skims over Akira’s teeth and Goro’s heart catches in his throat. _Goro_ taught him that. For a brief moment, Goro sees the future spreading out in front of him. Years from now, when Yusuke still stands at their side, woven into their lives like the branches of a cherry blossom tree. They’ll have learned and grown together and fit Yusuke into their lives until Goro forgets how they ever stood apart.

Goro can’t remember what it was like to be alone. They’re part of him now.

Akira pulls back as the vision fades. “Is this okay?” He turns to Goro with searching eyes.

Goro holds Yusuke’s hand against his face and nods. He doesn’t have the words to say he loves them. He hopes he’ll find them, one day.

That night they fall into bed, the three of them. Akira fits against the curve of Goro’s back as he has a hundred times before. But this time, Yusuke lies in front of him, head resting on Goro’s pillow, legs tangled with Goro’s, one arm laid over Akira’s waist.

It’s cramped with the three of them. Yusuke lays uncomfortably close to the edge. Goro holds his hand to make sure he doesn’t fall. Morgana grumbles under his breath and quickly leaves for the couch.

Akira laughs quietly, breath tickling the back of Goro’s neck. “We’ll have to get a bigger bed.”

Yusuke’s hand strokes up and down Akira’s side, arm brushing against Goro. “Unfortunately my futon is only made for one.”

Eventually, they’ll need a bigger apartment, too, if they intend to fit a proper bedroom _and_ Yusuke’s studio. But for now, Goro keeps that thought to himself. He hopes that one day, it’ll be time.

“We’ll buy you a new fucking futon,” Goro grumbles.

Yusuke chuckles quietly into his pillow. It’s the last sound Goro hears before Yusuke’s breath evens out. Goro can only see Yusuke’s outline in the shadows of their bedroom. Slowly, he presses his fingers to the hollow of Yusuke’s throat. Unbidden, he thinks about wrapping his hands around the column of Yusuke’s neck. But he lets the thought harmlessly drift away and feels the thrum of Yusuke’s heart in his veins.

Akira gently tightens his embrace. “I’m proud of you,” he murmurs against Goro’s neck.

Goro closes his eyes, heart full to bursting with emotions he’s spent his life ignoring. When he looks back on the road he’s traveled, twisted and sullied with blood, he knows he’s walked a long way to get here. He walked most of it alone, angry, and hurting. More stretches out ahead until it disappears beyond the horizon.

He still has so much left undone.

But he doesn’t have to do it alone. He has people that have chosen to walk that road with him. Regardless of the path he’s taken and the road that still lay ahead, he’s grateful that he’s _here_ in this moment.

When he dreams of garnet eyes and a mother’s love, it doesn’t hurt.

Goro sits beside his mother on their yellowed, lumpy futon. A thick layer of dust coats the walls of this place Goro once called home. The world moved on, summer turned to winter, and his mother’s hands grew cold long before she died. The state seized her belongings and sent Goro away. Someone else moved into this place and overwrote Goro’s fleeting moments of happiness.

But it waits in Goro’s memory, this one, perfect moment, forever unchanged.

Goro faces his mother, legs folded beneath him. He stares into the sun as he tries to remember her face. Bits and pieces dance in the air like fireflies—hair curling to frame her face, the way her cheeks dimpled when she laughed. But when he tries to pull them together, they slip through his grasp. His eyes water; all he can hold is the scent of lilies and a forgotten tune.

“You were so, so wrong,” Goro murmurs.

He’s still angry. Anger was the only thing that kept him alive when the world tore him apart. He doubts he’ll ever stop being angry. Angry at his father for taking joy in others’ pain, angry at the world for casting them aside, angry at his own mother for leaving him behind. Angry at himself for making all the wrong decisions.

But there’s a way to be angry without setting himself ablaze. He’s seen it in the Phantom Thieves. That rebellious fire in Akira’s eyes sparked a revolution that broke humanity’s chains. Goro doesn’t dream of anything so grand, not anymore.

But he’d like to stop hurting the people he loves. He’s trying to learn how.

“I didn’t need better,” Goro breathes. “I needed _you.”_

He reaches out and cups her face in his palms. It's like trying to hold fog in his grasp. His hands are so big against her blush-stained cheeks, holding her the way she used to hold him. Every day he grows a bit older and he forgets a little bit more. One day, all he’ll have is the memory of being loved.

With Yusuke and Akira, he wants more than just memories.

“You would have loved them, too.”

No matter how much it hurts, he wouldn’t give up the years with his mother for anything.

When he opens his eyes, the first light of dawn spills into their bed. Yusuke sits against the headboard. In the darkness, Goro can make out the vague shape of Yusuke’s long arms, stretching skyward. Akira stills snores against his back, for all intents and purposes dead to the world. Goro blinks, leaning up on his elbow.

Yusuke pauses, eyes meeting Goro’s through the dark. “Ah, forgive me, did I wake you?”

His voice is quiet, rough from sleep. Goro feels it rumble in his chest, a pleasant hum in his veins. Goro shakes his head. Early mornings are nothing new to him.

“No,” he yawns. “I’ll have to get up for class soon, anyway.”

“I see.” Yusuke nods, hands clasping behind his back as he folds into another stretch.

Goro hums, watching the shadows of Yusuke’s long limbs extend into the darkness. Every movement is practiced and purposeful, elegant in its efficiency. How could anyone think Yusuke the artist, and not the art himself? Goro wants to reach up and fit Yusuke’s hands with his to memorize how their fingers lace together. He longs to press his mouth into the dip of each knuckle, scrape his teeth against the inside of his wrist, and feel the flutter of Yusuke’s pulse against his tongue.

Goro wants to taste Yusuke’s skin every day for the rest of his life

“Did you have a good dream?” Yusuke asks.

Goro blinks, startled out of his thoughts. “What?”

“You were smiling.” Yusuke folds his arm over his opposite shoulder. “You’re very beautiful in your sleep.”

Blush colors Goro’s cheeks. He’s thankful for the cover of darkness. Goro closes his eyes and thinks of his mother’s face, what little he can remember. Red lips, eyes mirroring his own, and beautiful honeyed hair. He feels warm, the way he feels when drinking Akira’s coffee, all the cold parts of his soul brought into the light.

For the first time in as long as he can remember, it doesn’t hurt.

He swims through the ocean of their sheets to Yusuke’s side. He lays his head across Yusuke’s lap as the sun rises over Tokyo. Slowly, Yusuke threads his fingers through Goro’s hair. He gently combs out the knots formed overnight, fingertips soft against Goro’s skin. Yusuke’s touch sparks stars behind Goro’s eyes to match the one laid over Goro’s heart.

“I think it was a good dream,” Goro murmurs.

Regardless of the road he’s traveled or the future yet unclaimed—this moment is worth dreaming of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: memory/fever dream of someone who committed suicide, suicide note, survivor's guilt, goro's intrusive murderous thoughts
> 
> you can come talk to me on [tumblr](https://aceklaviergavin.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/aceklaviergavin)


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